


A Northern Dragoness

by CaekDaemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Other, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaekDaemon/pseuds/CaekDaemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 161 years after Aegon's Conquest and the last of the dragons that had forged the Iron Throne in fire and blood are dead. King Baelor the Blessed sits upon the throne, ruling the Seven Kingdoms with a pious heart and a gentle hand, but the realm still feels the effects of the Dance of the Dragons that happened in his father's youth, and there is no man in the South who does not know of Cregan Stark and the Hour of the Wolf that had paved the way for Aegon the Younger's regency...and the price that came before it, the Pact of Ice and Fire that had been sworn in the eyes of gods and men in exchange for Northern support. Gold and riches were given to the Starks, gifts of steel and prestigious titles, but the greatest prize of all is the most pressing - the hand of a Targaryen princess, to be wed to the heir of Winterfell once they came of age. </p><p>Though King Baelor is reluctant to give a Targaryen woman to the Starks, the Old Man of the North will not be denied his prize...and for Daena Targaryen, locked within a tower of Maegor's Holdfast, the Starks could not have come soon enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**A Northern Dragoness.**   
**The Red Keep, 161 AC.**   


Daena sighed in boredom as she played with an arrow, balancing it on the tip of her finger as the bright light of the warm summer morning gleamed into her chambers through the open shutters, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the city and everything more interesting than staying inside the forsaken castle. It was the perfect day to go for a ride in the countryside with her friends, or go on a thrilling hunt through the depths of the Kingswood with her trusted bow in hand....but her "husband" would not let her do so, no, he wouldn't let her do anything of the sort, having confined her to her chambers from dawn till dusk every day to ensure he would never have to deal with the risk of succumbing to his entirely natural lusts and break his precious vows as a septon.  _Damn his vows. He is supposed to be my husband, and he does nothing with me. He doesn't even try to sire an heir. No, he didn't even enter our chambers on our wedding night for the bedding, he went to that forsaken sept so he could pray to the Maiden that I never get bedded. It'll keep me "pure" he says, and guarantee me a place in the the heavens when I die..._  
  
 _...but I don't care about the heavens, I couldn't care less about them if I tried to. I want to live. I want to...I want to travel the Seven Kingdoms and see all these lands have to offer, I want to see the shadow of Casterly Rock, look down upon the world from the top of the Eyrie and see the Wall in all its glory with my own eyes...I want to be wanted by a man, I want to feel his embrace at night and the warmth of his seed inside me after we make love together...I...I want to have children of my own, some day. I want to have a  **life** , not just...waste away in this damn chamber..._  
  
She sighed, brushing away a tear rolling down her cheek and downing half a cup of wine in one go. Baelor cared  _nothing_  for how she felt, for the life she dreamed of living, for the journeys she wished to take and the children she hoped to give life to, no, all he cared about was his damnable Faith, loving it more than he could ever love her, his own sister-wife.   
  
 _"You are a Targaryen, Daena,"_  her father had once said with pride all those years ago, when her brave brother Daeron still lived, a time when it looked as though she would become her elder brother's bride and have the chance to live the life she had always wanted to have.  _"As stronghearted and as brave as any could ever dream of being."_  
  
 _Father...brother, I wish you were both still alive...neither of you would ever have let him do this to me. Seven hells, I shouldn't even be letting him do this to me._  
  
She rose from her seat and took her quiver of arrows - a gift from Daeron for her thirteenth nameday, made from the highest quality leather and carefully embroidered with beautiful golden dragons - before striding over to the balcony of her apartment. It was the one and only thing she was grateful to have been given by her husband, since it gave her a perfect view of the courtyard, from the gatehouse all the way to the entrance to the great hall. She sat upon the stone edge, looking down and watching the guardsmen carrying out their daily drills with envious eyes.  _I wish I could be down there, shooting at the targets...but that pious cunt says he wouldn't want anyone tempted by the sight of me._  She watched as a knight in all white armour stepped out of the sept, his white cloak fluttering behind him in the warm breeze...then she saw  _him_ , her captor, the man she hated the most in the world, her brother-husband.  
  
Her lithe fingers slid into her quiver and drew out a single arrow, eying the distance and knowing she could make the shot, making a small smile spread across her face as she thought.  _I would only need to put a single arrow through that bastard's blackheart and my cousin would be king. He'd pardon me for certain, he might even thank me for it in private..._  She nocked the arrow and narrowed her eyes as she worked out the range, ready to draw and ready to put an end to Baelor.  _"...whatever you do, my sweet little dragon, look after your brothers and sisters..."_  
  
The words of the father she loved echoed through her mind as her fingers twitched - one shot, she would only ever need to take one shot at him and it would be done, not even Aemon the Dragonknight could save him then, but she had sworn a promise...she sighed, taking the arrow and returning it to her quiver and dropping her bow ontop of her table.  _Damn you, Baelor. If you weren't my brother I would riddle you with so many arrows they would think you were a tree and not a man._  She slumped back into her chair, contemplating for a brief moment of throwing herself off the balcony so as to not have to deal with such horrid boredom any longer, or perhaps drowning herself in wine so that she could learn whether or not Baelor could even feel guilty for the things he had done to her.  _If the Father is as just as he says he is, Baelor will be in the deepest, darkest pit in the worst part of the seven hells._  
  
She sighed again, taking another drink of wine, a rich and sweet red from the vineyards of Old Oak in the Reach.  _Dornish reds are too sour to be worth drinking, and Arbor golds aren't sweet enough for my tastes. But this...this is just right for -_  
  
There was the clatter of horseshoes as the gates of the Red Keep clanked into life and opened. She rose from her seat again and walked onto the balcony, peering down into the courtyard again and watching a procession of fifty or more men, all of them mounted upon good, strong steeds, barded in white and grey with direwolf banners flying above.  _Starks...? What are they doing here?_  She watched as the leader of the group, an old man who could only be the Lord Paramount of the North himself, Cregan Stark, perhaps one of the most influential men of their generation and as skilled in the melee as he was in the high halls of Winterfell and King's Landing. Besides him was another man, younger and bulkier, perhaps a year or two older than her at most, not that she would be allowed to meet them, lest he somehow deflower her from across the room as her brother Baelor seemed to believe was possible.  
  
There was a knock on her door, light and quick. She smiled, she knew who it was even before they entered. "Elaena, you can come in."  
  
Her sweet little sister stepped into the room, eleven namedays old and nearly a woman grown, she was looking more beautiful every year and boys were starting to pay attention to her, but she was still small and fragile when compared to Daena, who stood over a foot taller than her, whilst Rhaena was perhaps an inch or two even taller than Daena was, with a larger bosom and a larger rump, too, though her hips weren't much wider. Elaena wore her silver-golden hair in a long braid, but Daena knew she was thinking of cutting it off to try and shame Baelor, just as Daena herself had stopped wearing all of her black clothing and replaced it with white...though, she had a feeling Baelor liked her more that way.  _If he does, I'll just start walking around naked and we'll see just how he reacts then._  
  
"Daena," her little sister said with a sweet smile, "It'll be time for court in an hour or two."  
  
"Will it?"  _And here I am, getting drunk in my chambers...oh, the perks of being a princess locked in a tower._  "Have the Starks come to bugger our good king with a wierwood branch?"   
  
Elaena laughed. "No..." she smiled at Daena widely. "They're here for  _you._ "  
  
Daena set her cup down on the table and stared at Elaena in disbelief, knowing she couldn't be so drunk as to have misheard her. "You...you can't be serious?"  
  
"It's true," Elaena continued, "I heard about it from some of the other ladies...Cregan Stark wants to get your marriage annulled. The Pact of Ice and Fire, he calls it."  
  
Daena bolted to her feet grinning, and she walked over to her hearth, packed with logs ready for when the night came, taking the flint and iron she always kept close at hand for whenever she went on a hunt and lit the firewood with a single strike. Every word she said was filled with excitement and hope, hope for a chance to leave the castle, to leave Baelor, to have a life she thought she might never have. "Elaena, can you find me some water? I'm going to have a bath, then I'll need your help to brush my hair...and help me pick out my prettiest dress, too."  
  
 _Maybe the one that pushes up my teats and makes them look bigger..._  
  
"...do you really think he'll be able to get me out of here?"  
  
Elaena smiled softly. "I do, Daena..." her little sister's smile melted away to a sad frown and a sigh. "I can only hope someone comes to get me, too."  
  
Daena smiled at her closest friend and gave her a warm, comforting hug. "I will do everything I can to bring you with me. You can be my lady-in-waiting at Winterfell, and we'll go riding together whenever we want."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"I promise."  
  


****

Jonnel sighed as he waited inside the beating heart of the Red Keep...and indeed, the Seven Kingdoms as a whole - the throne room. The Iron Throne stood tall, the light of the stained glass windows gleaming off the countless swords that Aegon had fused together into one throne with the flame of his dragon, Balerion, whose very skull stood above the Iron Throne itself, looking down upon the gathered nobility with his monstrous maw opened, as if ready to swallow the entire court whole.  _He put the throne together just as he put the realm together._    
  
His father had brought him along to King's Landing - riding long and hard across the North and through the Riverlands at a pace more often seen in times of war - as soon as they had learnt that Baelor Targaryen had become king and had no interest in consummating his marriage, something that would give them an opportunity they could never pass by. They were escorted only by the very best of the household guard, chosen as much for their perfect appearance as they were for their skill at arms, and his father had sent ravens to his friends in the court from every castle they had stopped at whilst on their way to the Red Keep, one message at each holdfast so as to avoid drawing too much interest in what they were doing.   
  
His father spoke quietly amongst the crowds, everyone waiting for their king to finish his morning prayers before holding court, giving them precious time to discuss their goals and plan. "Remember, give the princess your best impression. Be noble, be courteous, and most of all, be gallant."  
  
"Father...I'm not quite sure this is such a good idea," he said quietly in complaint. "This princess...Daena...the king must have a reason for not wanting her. Perhaps she's ugly -"  
  
"If she's ugly, then you'll simply have to bed her with your eyes closed," his father said sternly as he stepped closer and looked his son in the eye. The years had not been kind to his father, but he was still strong and resilient, like an old fortress that had seen a hundred battles beneath its walls. "There is more to marriage than having a pretty girl to plough whenever you want to, you should know that enough by now."   
  
A cold stab went through him at that, and instantly he glared towards his father with a bitter expression.  
  
His wife, Robyn Ryswell, had died only six moons before after her third miscarriage made her blood turn to poison, and he watched helplessly as the sweet and loving woman he had grown fond of over the few years of their marriage passed away in her bed, nothing more than a shadow of her former self.  _....she would have been a wonderful mother, but it was not meant to be._  
  
"I would not have you speaking ill of Robyn like that, dead or not, she was my wife and I cared for her as any husband should."  
  
His father smiled ever so slightly at his son's reaction. "Make sure the princess sees and hears of that respect when she arrives..." his father stepped over and quickly adjusted the bronze clasp holding Jonnel's cloak together, placing it perfectly in line with the rest of his body. "And make sure you are dressed flawlessly. First impressions are everything, and I won't have you turned down merely because you cared too little about your clothes to dress well enough for the moment at hand."  
  
Jonnel sighed. He had changed from his travelling clothes into the most expensive ones he had, freshly made entirely for this  _one_  day at court on his father's suggestion, a finely made doublet sewn from white cloth with two great direwolves facing each other on either side of the buttons, surrounded by an even more intricate pattern of blue thread made to look like falling snowflakes.  _I like good clothes, but this...I wasn't even wearing clothes this fine on the day I was married, and I probably won't be wearing them when I'm buried in the crypts, either._  Ontop of his doublet was a cloak of the finest cloth that could be found within the Seven Kingdoms, so expensive and so grand was the dyework that the entire cloak rivalled a good suit of armour in price, but to his father if it gave him even a slightest bit of a greater chance of winning the hand of a princess, it was worth the expense.  _My father got plenty of gold thanks to the Pact...and this is the last part of it : for me to be married to a princess...gods, I hope she's pretty._  
  
He had never seen women with the full Valyrian look before, not once; he had spent most of his life so far inside the very heartlands of the North, a land that was far away from any of the great Valyrian conquests of Essos and the the Narrow Sea and a months ride away from King's Landing and the Red Keep. No, the closest he had ever come was when he had been in White Harbour with Ser Wylon Manderly four years ago when he was still but a youth of fifteen namedays. His friend had dragged him into an expensive brothel near the city's harbourfront, saying that they had the best ale he had ever drank and women who were as beautiful and as wet as mermaids.  _Everyone says that about a whore if they've had enough ale...but that brothel, seven hells, he was telling the truth._  It was the most expensive whorehouse he had ever seen in his life, costing half a gold dragon to tumble one of their girls, but they came from the lands across the Narrow Sea and catered exclusively to captains and lords, not to common sailors or townsmen. He had felt the warmth of a woman's body for the very first time that day, to a Lysene woman who had the silver hair of the Valyrians mingling with the black of the Stormlands, and deep blue eyes the color of still water, but when his father found out he had clipped him around the ear and made him work in the kitchens for three months for being so stupid as to risk catching a pox from her.  _Still, it was worth it._  
  
"Get rid of that silly smile," his father commanded. "She may have been pretty, but you cannot let her distract you. Not now, when you need to focus on the princess..." Cregan's glare was as hard and as cold as ice. "I promise you now, if you make a mistake that costs us this marriage because of that forsaken wench the next time you see her will be in hell. Do you understand?"  
  
 _Gods, was it that obvious?_  
  
"Yes, father, I understand," he replied as he matched Cregan's gaze and watched his cheeks twist into a small and proud smile.   
  
"You'll do well, Jonnel," his father said warmly as the court started to quieten down as the bulk of the Kingsguard entered the room, King Baelor the First of his Name behind them and no queen standing besides him. "There is no woman in the Seven Kingdoms who could resist your charms, I'm sure...but remember, she will be a southron princess, soft and fragile. Treat her as a winter's rose and you cannot do much wrong."  
  
 _...I would have preferred a Mormont. A woman with fire in her heart, or at least someone who would be at home in Winterfell. If she's as southron as he says, she'll freeze at night and complain or...she might climb into my bed more to keep warm..._  
  
The king ascended the mountain of twisted metal and took his place atop the Iron Throne, looking down on the entire court with warm eyes and a blissful smile. He was a small man, made thin from constant fasts and with little muscle to speak of, but   
  
He was a small man, thinner than some peasants thanks to the constant fasts he undertook in the name of his faith, with little muscle to speak of...and with his crown of flowers and wines and his roughspun robe of white, he looked nothing like the way Jonnel had imagined a king to look and more like a mad servant who had walked into the throne room and stolen his seat.  _The king on the Iron Throne should be strong and powerful, like the kingdom itself. The Targaryens made the realm by conquering it, not by sitting in front of an altar and praying till the throne. He doesn't even have a crown...gods, if this is what the Targaryens are now it won't be long before the realm falls apart._    
  
Besides the king, stood in a position usually reserved for the Hand of the King, was the High Septon, a man whose piety could only be rivaled by that of the king himself, but almost everywhere else he looked he saw familiar faces, those of men he had seen meeting his father at Winterfell when he was little and had wooden swordfights with the sons they brought in tow, watching and waiting in silence for Cregan Stark to begin before they would speak up in support of his arguments and try to help him get whatever he wanted, as any man would do whenever they had the chance to help out an old and trusted friend. He looked around the room, trying to see how many he could recognize, but then he noticed something odd, something that would be utterly bizarre in any other court of the Seven Kingdoms...if not the entire world.  
  
 _There's not a single woman in the room. No princesses on the dais, no queen near the throne...there aren't even any ladies in the crowds, or any serving girls passing through._  
  
He looked to the throne, towards the king as an idea quickly took shape.  _He hasn't bedded his wife, he doesn't like to fight and he doesn't have any women in his court...gods have mercy, the king on the Iron Throne is a sword swallower._    
  
The king smiled at him, and Jonnel immediately looked away in horror.  _...oh gods...I'm meant to be charming his wife not **him.**_  
  
The High Septon spoke with a kindly voice, and Jonnel was grateful for the distraction. "May the Father lend his judgement and the Crone her wisdom to our gracious and beloved king on this day of court."  
  
"I thank you for the blessing, your holiness," said the septon-king gratefully with an unending smile. "I could not have said it better myself."  
  
 _...could they be lovers?_  
  
King Baelor announced with a loud but calm voice. "I, King Baelor of the house Targaryen declare this court to be open. Please, bring forth any issues you might have, so that I might resolve them if the Seven are willing."  
  
The court's herald looked down at his papers in surprise, hesitating for a moment before turning back to the court and to the king he served. "It would seem there is only one petitioner today, your grace, the good and honest Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North and the crown's loyal Warden of the same."  
  
 _Father must have found a way to get all the other petitioners to put their issues aside for the day. He's **always**  known what to do, but that has to be a feat even for him._  
  
The king's eyes narrowed slightly. "Step forth, Lord Stark."  
  
His father stepped forward, the only sound in the entire hall being those of his footsteps as he stood before the throne and bowed deeply in deference to the king.   
  
"Tell me, my lord, what issue is so troublesome so as to bring you so far from Winterfell?" the king asked, his voice echoing through the silent halls.   
  
His father stood as tall and as straight as a statue, never once losing the lordly demeanour that made him look more like a king than Baelor did.  
  
"Your grace, I have come about the pact of alliance that was signed in the days of your father - may his soul rest peacefully at the side of the gods. I am of course referring to the Pact of Ice and Fire, which I am sure you are familiar with."  
  
The frail king smiled and nodded. "Of course. House Stark and the North were recognized and rewarded for their part in the war and in my father's regency."  
  
"However, there is but one matter of the agreement that has been left unattended to for far too long," his father said carefully with a lordly flourish of his right arm towards his son and heir. "The marriage of a royal princess to my son and heir."  
  
"I am afraid I cannot arrange that," said the king sadly. "I have no daughters and I shall sire none, so as to keep to my vows of celibacy."  
  
"Aye," his father began again, "But you have three sisters. One, I understand, is considering the vows to become a septa, the other has yet to flower. With all of this in mind, I would ask for the hand of your eldest sister, Daena Targaryen, so as to fulfill the pact made in the eyes of the gods new and old."  
  
Murmurs rippled through the crowds as the king considered his words for but a moment, giving Torrhen Manderly - the realm's Master of Coin - a chance to step forward and speak.   
  
"Your grace, the Starks of Winterfell have always been loyal to your family and to the realm, and my own son would count Jonnel Stark as his closest friend and a man of honor and courage. Who could be a better husband for a princess of Targaryen blood than he?"  
  
 _This is where I come in._  
  
Jonnel stepped forward, so as to give the king a better look of him. "It would be the highest honor to be your good brother, your grace."  _Thank the gods the right of the first night is long dead. The last thing I want to find out is whether or not the husband can be bedded instead of the bride._  
  
"I have to echo the sentiments of Lord Stark and of Lord Manderly," spoke Lord Brynden Bracken. "The Targaryen line has always been known for upholding their sides of any bargain they might make, I see no reason to change that now."  
  
"Indeed," Cregan added with a smile, "This arrangement was made before the eyes of the gods as well as those of men, and as a godly man, I am sure you, your grace, will agree that the gods smile upon those who uphold their promises."  
  
King Baelor finally replied. "As much as I might wish to carry out the Pact to his fullest extent and give you a daughter, I am afraid I cannot in good conscience do such a thing. My sisters are mine to look after as the head of my house, and in the interest of looking after their immortal souls I shall keep them unwed and chaste, so as to please the Maiden and guarantee them a place in the heavens. Daena herself is my lady wife, and even though our union is unconsummated and indeed, unwanted, I have no choice but to -"  
  
It was not any of the Northern lords or even his father who interrupted the king, but the High Septon himself. "Pardon my interruption, your grace, but that is not necessarily true. The Seven-Pointed Star makes the will of the gods known, and in the Maiden's Book it is clear that whilst a woman can gain entry to the Seven Heavens merely by staying chaste, it is stated in the Mother's Book that a woman can just as easily be given a place in the kingdom of the gods by being a loving and faithful wife, just as the bride of Hugor of the Hill was."  
  
"In addition, it is clearly stated and well known that a marriage is not a marriage unless it is consummated - indeed, it is more like a betrothal without the creation of children, and like all betrothals, it can be broken if one partner has sworn the vows and become either a septa...or septon."  
  
For the briefest of moments, his father smiled a predatory grin, like that of a direwolf baring its fangs before reassuming his lordly veil. "I must admit, news of southron affairs takes time to reach the North and even longer to reach Winterfell...but are you not a septon, your grace, or have I misheard?"  
  
 _He's got him already._  
  
The king fidgeted in his seat, the tiny scales of the Father dangling on his septon's chain tapping against the Iron Throne before he spoke. "Indeed I am...and it would seem I do not know the Mother's Book as well as I thought I did," the septon-king swallowed before continuing with a lower tone. "Very well, with my marriage to Daena null and void, and the urgency of an agreement sworn in front of the Seven-who-are-One, I will uphold our end of the Pact to it's completion. I betroth my sister Daena Targaryen to you, Jonnel Stark, and shall start making arrangements for the wedding as soon as the moon turns full once more. I would have you meet her today once the hall is empty, now that court for the day seems to be over and done."  
  
Jonnel bowed as his father did, smiling at his father's display of cunning and skill.  _If the Targaryens had never conquered the Seven Kingdoms my father would be a King-in-the-North worthy of legend. There's no one else in the world like him._  
  
"Thank you, your grace," his father said finally, with the slight hint of pride in his voice. "I have nothing else of importance to discuss."  
  
"Then I shall bring the day's court to an end, as the herald has no more petitioners for the day," Baelor turned his attention towards the High Septon. "And if it would trouble you, I would hope to have you come to the sept with me, so that you might further...illuminate me about the Mother's Book."  
  
Jonnel and his father returned to their place in the court even as the king stepped down from the throne and left, the High Septon nervously following him out and the rest of the lords starting to leave after a few words to his father, but he paid them no heed. He was to be married again so soon after the death of his first wife, and to a royal princess who he knew to be a few years younger than him and little more; he knew nothing about the way she acted or the things she might like to do, and all he knew of her appearance was that the dragonlords of the Freehold had been inhumanly beautiful, and that the Targaryens were no exception.   
  
The court emptied out, and he turned to his father to ask a question that had been picking at him ever since the court's herald had said there was only one petition for the day. "Father, how did you manage to make all the other lords and the smallfolk drop their issues?"  
  
"You can get more of what you want with a kind word and a bag of gold than you can with just a kind word," his father said quietly as the crowds grew thinner and thinner. "Most of their problems were simple enough to be solved by my friends here, whilst the harder ones were mostly caused by people trying to get an advantage over old rivals and even a small bag of gold is often enough to make them consider coming back another day."  
  
"But what about those who didn't want gold? If they were too honest to take bribes?"  
  
"There are  _very_  few people in the world with weaknesses that can't be exploited by men, Jonnel," his father said, looking towards the Iron Throne. "The king is one, he's not tempted by wine, women, gold or a hunger for glory. No, his passion is for the Faith and it alone. There aren't many men like him in the world, and whilst it might be impossible to find a weakness you can use against him, the people around him are not quite as strong and willing to resist temptations."  
  
"You bribed the High Septon, didn't you?"  
  
His father laughed, a low chuckle that echoed off the walls of the empty throne room.  
  
"Perhaps I did. Or perhaps I found out about a...difficult issue of his, and threatened to have the king learn of it if he refused to take our side in this matter."  
  
A door on the far side of the hall opened and a young girl stepped through, with a long braid of silver and golden hair and wearing a dress of black, far too young to be the princess he had been betrothed to, and, whilst pretty, she was not the kind of great beauty she had heard hundreds of people describe the Targaryen women as being.   
  
"And now I shall take my leave," his father said with a sly smile. "I can't have the princess thinking that you need my help for something so simple as a courtship. Remember what I said and you can't do much wrong."  
  
His father walked off, leaving him in the courtroom with the princess, who waited for him to leave before moving out of the doorway...and it was as if the Maiden herself had entered the room, so stunningly beautiful was the princess.  _Gods be good..._  
  
She was wearing a dress of black and red cloth of only the finest quality, a dress that hugged her body and revealed everything about her and nothing at the same time, accentuating her hips and supporting her plump bosom. Her hair of silver and gold curled past her shoulders, complementing her bright amethyst eyes like gemstones socketed into a golden crown.  
  
She was  _perfect_  in face and form, an unrivalled beauty so great that no artist would ever be able to compliment her, nor any sculptor ever be able to truly recreate her magnificence in stone no matter how hard or long they might toil. He stood there, stunned into silence as she strode across the room, smiling softly as she took in his looks and dress, as curious about him as he was about her. When she was no more than a few feet away from him, he bowed and smiled as best as he could, his heart racing with nervousness completing unbefitting of the heir to Winterfell and the North.  
  
"My lady," he said with a fake confidence as he took her hand and kissed it, half-certain that it was the normal way Southron lords acted towards their betrothed and half-horrified that he may have just committed a terrible mistake infront of the most beautiful woman in the world. "I am honored to be your betrothed."  
  
 _Stay focused, Jonnel...how hard could it be?_  
  
"I was just told about the arrangement," she said quietly with a hint of fear in her voice, as if she was afraid of him for whatever reason.  
  
There was a tense moment of anxious silence in the hall.  _She...she must think I am a fool...Come on, Jonnel, you can think of something..._  
  
"Do you like poetry, my lady?" he asked on impulse, trying to bring some life back into the conversation.  
  
 _...gods be damned I should not have said that._  
  
"...I do...?" the princess replied, her voice making her reply as if it was a question.  
  
 _I don't know any poems...alright, I can try and make something up...hmm..._  
  
He swallowed his fear. He would not fail his father and make a mockery of his house, no, he would win her heart for himself and for Winterfell's interests, no matter what he had to do.  
  
"Roses are blue," he muttered quietly, almost mumbling over the words. "As are violets, too, and...uh, let there be a lifetime of love for me and you?"  
  
 _...Father would have had me hung if he heard me say that._  
  
She stared back at him, stunned.  
  
And then she laughed.  
  
"That is the  _worst_  poem I have ever heard," she said, smiling as the awkwardness between the two started to thaw. "Not that I have ever heard much poetry."  
  
"You...you don't like poems?" he asked, thinking back to what his father said about her being a southron maiden. "Gods, it's a good thing you don't, I haven't an idea how to make good poetry."  
  
"Neither do I," she replied softly. "I haven't an interest in that sort of thing...and I can tell you don't, either."  
  
"And what gave that away?" he asked with a smile.  
  
"The poem, for starters," she instantly replied, making him laugh. "My name is Daena, and yours?"  
  
"I am Jonnel Stark, my lady, and I am the heir to Winterfell...tell me," he asked, feeling more confident with every moment that passed. "What kind of lady are you, to have no interest in poetry?"  
  
"The kind that prefers hunting and riding over poems and sewing."  
  
 _She's nothing like any southron lady I have ever heard of..._  
  
"Would you like to go on a walk, my lady?" he said, offering his hand.  
  
"Indeed I would. Oh, and stop calling me that, already. I gave you my name, and if we're going to be husband and wife I would have you use it."  
  
"Or would you rather have me address you as "my lord" when we are in the bedchamber, instead of by your name?" she asked with a teasing smile that made his manhood stir in his breeches.  
  
 _...who **is**  this woman?_  
  
"I...seven hells," he said with a sigh of confusion. "You're nothing like I expected you to be. My father told me you were going to be a soft maiden, moved to tears by songs, but...you're nothing like that."  
  
Daena frowned. "...is there something wrong?"  
  
 _She's mocking me. She **must**  be._  
  
His eyes narrowed. "Why are you mocking me?"  
  
"But I haven't done anything of the sort?"  
  
His heart wanted her and her straightforward adventurous spirit, but his mind told him there was simply no way it could be the reality of how she was, and that he should never accept a woman who was already lying to him before they were even married...no matter how much he might desire her and her lie.  _It must be a lie...there can't be a princess of the Seven Kingdoms who is the way she says she is. She's manipulating me; she knows what I would hope to have in a woman, and she's using it against me._  
  
He turned around and walked out of the hall alone, his heart sinking into a whirling maelstrom of want, confusion, anger and disbelief.  _This castle has a godswood, even if it doesn't have a wierwood tree...and I need the help of the gods now more than I ever have before._  
  
"Leave me be," he said as her sister started to come towards him, a battle between his heart and mind starting to rage. "I need time to think."  
  
He heard a sigh of sadness come from his betrothed, and there was nothing in the world that could have made him feel worse.  
  
"You should have your father break the betrothal," the princess said as he stopped dead in his tracks, turning to her and seeing the tears glittering on her cheeks and eyes. "But...please,  _please_  don't do it. I'll be whatever you want me to be, so long as you don't make me go back to that tower."  
  
"If...if you don't want me, have your father break the betrothal," the princess said as he stopped dead in his tracks, turning to her and seeing the tears glittering on her cheeks and in her eyes. "But...please,  _please_  don't do it...I'll be whatever you want me to be, so long as you don't make me go back to that tower."  
  
"Do you see what you have done to her?" Daena's sister snapped with all the fury of a dragoness. "You should have never come here if you were going to be so cruel! What kind of monster are you, to accuse a lady of insulting you -"  
  
"Elaena, sweet sister..." Daena sighed. "Just...just leave him be."  
  
The younger of the two sisters stared at him in hatred, whilst the elder simply turned and started to walk back to her chambers in silence, any happiness she might have had crushed.  _...what have I done?_  
  
"Daena...wait," he asked, pleading as his heart conquered his mind. "Wait, please."  
  
She turned back to him, her face covered with sadness, even in her eyes...but he could see the tiny, faint light of hope burning inside her still, despite everything that had happened.  
  
"Would you like to go riding with me?" he asked, giving her a reassuring smile as he watched the tiny flame start to grow just a little stronger. "I have heard that the Kingswood is one of the most beautiful forests in all of the Seven Kingdoms, but I have only ever seen it from afar."  
  
"Truly?" she asked, disbelieving...but when there was no cruel laughter, she smiled at him and he had never seen a sight so beautiful. "I would love to...nothing would make me happier than to ride in the forest with you."  
  
Elaena's hostile gaze started to soften as he replied, "Then let's go right now. The sun is still high in the sky and there are many hours left before it sets."  
  
Daena's sadness melted away like the snows of Winterfell on a hot summer's day, and she quickly walked towards him, smiling wider than she ever had before. He stepped closer towards her and spoke quietly, his voice near a whisper. "There is only one thing I want you to be."  
  
She looked at him with the tiniest of fears.  
  
"I want you to be yourself," he said, taking his handkerchief and brushing away her tears and drying her cheeks. "No matter what, always be who you are, even if you think I might not approve. I give you my solemn vow that I will  _never_  do anything unmanly towards you, no matter what shape our marriage might take."  
  
"I..." Daena stared at him wide eyed...then she threw her arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace. "...thank you."  
  
He put his hands on her back, holding her against him and smiling for as long as she needed his warmth, only letting her go when she let go of him. Whatever had happened to her had wounded her spirit, just as how all the children he and his wife made and their how they had died before they ever had the chance to live had wounded him...but perhaps there would be a chance to make things go differently, this time. It had been the maester who had told him how Robyn might never be able to make life after her second miscarriage, that the very loss of their little boy or girl might have ruined her womb, but there was no man or woman in the world who could tell what the future held.  
  
"Now, we best mount up soon," he said with a smile he hadn't felt like wearing in a long time, a smile of a man interested in a woman again. "The longer we take here, the less time we have in the forests."  
  
She didn't even bother to change before rushing outside and mounting up after that.  
  


****

  
Daena smiled widely as the light of the sun beamed down on her and Jonnel through the wavering treetops, the shade breaking up the patches of warmth as cool winds blew through the branches and made the leaves whisper in the breeze. It was as beautiful a sight as the feeling to be free again, free of King's Landing, free of the Red Keep and free of Baelor, and for the first time since she had been locked in her chambers she felt  _whole_  again, like the woman she was meant to be instead of the mockery of herself her brother had been trying to shape her into and the ladylike mask she had tried to wear for her betrothed, in order to be more appealing.  _But he doesn't want me to be like that, he wants me to be the way **I** want to be. That's something Baelor never did for me, or anyone else for that matter. They always wanted me to be the perfect lady, to "set an example" for the rest of the realm and be the perfect harpist, sewer and dancer...I say they can go burn in the seven hells with their harps. I will do as I will, and no one will tell me otherwise._  
  
Her smile grew wider as she put a hand on the side of her steed's neck as Balerion - named for the dragon he was as black as - stepped over a thick and chunky root, delighted to be able to ride him again.  _It's been too long. I'm surprised Baelor even kept him in the stables all this time. He hasn't even had him gelded or anything like that...though perhaps he tried, and the horse groom cut off his balls instead of Balerion's. It would explain a lot of things if he had._  
  
She looked towards her betrothed, her future husband. He was not the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, but he had a charm to him all the same, with his long face and eyes of dark grey, like the color of good steel...but what she was interested in the most was the noble heart that was lying just beneath the surface. Her husband was a monster sheathed in piety and faith, as evil as Maegor the Cruel, even if the rest of the realm hadn't saw him the way he had, but Jonnel, he was different.  _He is someone I could grow to love, someday, and I'd hope he could love me, too...but having felt what I did when we embraced, well, he must certainly love my body already. Or at the very least he needs to wear thicker breeches, no matter how hilarious it would be to let Baelor see him with his "banner" raised._  
  
 _Or at the very least he needs to wear thicker breeches...though, it would be fun to let Baelor see him with his "banner" raised, if only so I can watch the pious cunt fidget._    
  
"These woods are almost as thick as the Wolfswood near Winterfell," her betrothed said as he looked around. "But the trees are younger, you can see where the new growth is still coming through."  
  
"When we are married, you will have to show me the Wolfswood, Jonnel," she said with a smile she shared with him. "Is it as big as they say it is?"  
  
"Bigger," he replied. "It's the biggest wood in Westeros south of the Wall and the Haunted Forest beyond it. There are wierwoods in it, in groves surrounded by oaks a thousand years old."  
  
"It sounds...wonderful," she said with a smile, thinking of the deep and primal woods of the North, whose depths hadn't seen a woodsman's axe for thousands of years.  
  
"Aye, it is," her husband smiled. "Only half as wonderful as you, my lady."  
  
She grinned...it was nice to feel wanted, after so long without so much as being allowed near a man other than Aemon the Dragonknight and her brother Baelor, both of whom could beat statues on being chaste and untempted by women.  
  
"On the other hand," she said with a seductive look in her eye, "Why would I want to see the second largest wood in Westeros when I felt the largest pressing against my waist earlier?"  
  
"You..." Jonnel stared at her in shock before looking away, turning a bright shade of red. "Daena...my apologies. I hadn't known."  
  
She laughed, the sound of her voice echoing through the forest. "Oh please, don't be. It's natural. Besides, I suppose I am expected to become  _familiar_  with your cock once we're married anyway."  
  
"Daena..." her betrothed started with a voice filled with hesitation as he changed the topic. "Is the king...good to you? Does he treat you well?"  
  
"Why are you asking that?"  
  
"When we first met, in the throneroom, you were afraid to go back to your chambers, and I couldn't help but wonder why?"  
  
"If you must know, he has had me locked in there almost every single day since Daeron died, and my sisters in their own chambers, too," she explained with a voice as cold as the thick ice of a long winter. "He never allowed us to go to court, since he was afraid we might tempt the men of the court. He didn't even let us have our meals in public."  
  
"Gods have mercy," Jonnel said in surprise. "I knew he was doing something cruel to you, but that..that is something that no man should ever do to his lady wife, whether he likes her or not. King Baelor...he truly is a foul man, having done that to you. What reason could a man have, to treat their wives so poorly?"  
  
"Piety," she said quietly. "He uses that as his excuse for everything he has ever done to my sisters and I. You could even ask him about it if you don't believe me, the damned madman would say it with pride...and if it wasn't enough to keep me away from everyone in the castle who wasn't him, my sisters or my cousin Aemon, he told me he plans to build an extension onto the Red Keep so he could us out of Maegor's Holdfast entirely, after which I suppose he would keep us there till we died of old age."  
  
She sighed. "It's why I was so willing to do anything,  _be **anything**_ , to have you marry me and take me away from that...that monster of a man. I tried to be the perfect southron lady at first, the way everyone else in the court wants me to be and the way the septas tried to raise me, but...I couldn't do it. It's not me, it never was."  
  
"Daena...I'm so sorry for how I treated you earlier...for not believing that you were acting as yourself, it's just..." he sighed in confusion. "Messages take a long time to reach the North and even longer to reach Winterfell, and my father told me to expect a southron maiden...a delicate rose, he said."  
  
She laughed, smiling. "Well, he was half right. I am Southron and a maiden, too, but I am neither delicate nor a Tyrell."  
  
It was the turn of her betrothed to laugh, and he turned back to her a with a wider smile. "Aye, he was...and I think I prefer you this way. If there is anything you need help with, tell me, and I'll try to make amends for what I did."  
  
"Well, there is one thing," she said as she thought about her helpless little sister and the promise she had made. "Baelor is so insane that I cannot trust him to keep my sisters in his care...Rhaena, she was always a pious girl and she doesn't want my help, but...Elaena, my handmaiden, my little sister...she's  _innocent_ , and a maiden soon to flower, too. He's punishing her just because she was born a  _ **girl**_ and not a boy."  
  
She sighed again at her failures, and at what her brother hoped to do. "I promised my father I would keep her safe when he died, and I promised the same to Daeron when he went to fight in Dorne for the last time...I can't leave her behind to his madness, Jonnel."  
  
Jonnel swallowed as he paused before speaking more quietly, in case there was anyone else in the woods. "It wouldn't be proper to leave her behind if he is the way you say he is. Mayhaps there is a way for us to get her out with us and have her in Winterfell till she's old enough to wed."  
  
 _I'm sure there's a way, but I just need time to think..._  
  
"Leave the planning to me," she said with a small smile. "I've escaped the Red Keep a dozen times, even with guards outside my door. I'll just need you to be ready for whenever I ask for your help."  
  
"I'll do whatever it is you say, so long as it doesn't involve being cut down by the Kingsguard," her betrothed teased. "The only man in the Seven Kingdoms who could match your cousin is my father, and he's not as young as he once was."  
  
 _Hmmm...if Cregan fought against Aemon, just for a little while, the distraction might be enough to...no, that's a terrible plan. I'll think of something. I always do._  
  
"But don't worry, Daena, I will do my best to get her out with you, and you won't ever have to worry about being locked in a tower at Winterfell."  
  
 _Jonnel is everything a man should be. He is honest, kind, handsome...strong, too...and he doesn't keep the fucking Seven either...I could grow to love him. No, I think I love him already, especially with his horrible poems._  
  
"Jonnel, do you have anymore of those poems?"  
  
He laughed. "I'm afraid I made that one up whilst I was standing there," he looked up to the darkening sky before looking to her, sadly. "And we must return to the Red Keep before the sunsets. But don't worry, you'll only have to spend one more month in that tower, and then you'll never have to worry about it again."  
  
 _Gods...I almost can't believe it's actually going to end..._  
  
"I look forward to it...love." A daring smile rose across her cheeks as an idea came to mind, an idea that made her blood turn hot inside her veins for the first time in years. "Also...we needn't hurry back to the castle."  
  
She brought her horse to a halt, taking her hands off the reins and putting them around her back, onto the laces of her dress.  _It's not like they can stop me from marrying him even if I have lost my maidenhead to him..._    
  
"After Baelor left me in that tower...gods, I started to get so  _alone_  in there..." she said with a suggesting tone as her fingers worked at the strings, feeling her dress get looser and looser with every knot she undid. "So alone, and so cold on days just like this one...but mayhaps you could help warm -""  
  
"That's enough," spoke the stern voice of Aemon the Dragonknight as he led his own steed past hers and threw a cloak around her shoulders to her endless frustration. "I was content to leave you two to talk as you might will without complaint, but I cannot allow you to do that, no matter how much you might be tempted."  
  
"Surely there isn't a problem with me giving my maidenhead to the man I am marrying?" she glared with anger. "We'll be wed in only a few weeks time...and were you following us?"   
  
"Aye," Aemon said, securing the cloak around her shoulders with a softer, more kindly voice. "King Baelor has given me the command to watch over you till then and to make sure that you go to your wedding bed a maid, just as the Seven Sided Star orders."  
  
"It seems such things will have to wait till our bedding," her betrothed laughed. "It's not that far away."  
  
 _But I..._  She sighed in frustration as her lusts were denied to her.  _I suppose my hands will have to be my lovers tonight._  
  
"Fine...but I'm not happy about it."  
  
"It's only a few weeks, cousin. After that, you can do whatever you might please to each other at Winterfell."  
  
"Let me guess," she said as she rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Our  _glorious_  king plans to send a member of the Kingsguard to look after me at Winterfell, too?"  
  
"No...but I could sugg-"  
  
"Suggest it to him and you won't leave this forest alive," she snarled, putting her hand on the grip of her dagger for emphasis. "It's Valyrian steel, and I know how to wield it."  
  
Aemon laughed with a smile. "It was only a joke, cousin. I know how much you hate your brother, and ye does not wish to send a member of the Kingsguard along with you to Winterfell, and I won't suggest it to him either unless you would truly wish it, and I already know that you don't."  
  
"Thank you. You would be a better king than he."  
  
"I have heard many people say that, but I swore off any inheritance I might have had when I swore my vows. No, my white cloak shall be my crown and honorable duty my queen. I would not want it any other way...now, we best return to the castle before the sun retires for the day, and the sooner we return the better your chances of avoiding King Baelor, as he is in the Red Keep's septry contemplating whether or not to build a bigger septry."  
  
Jonnel and Daena both laughed at that as they turned their horses about to the castle. "Is he fasting, too?"  
  
"...aye, he is," said the Dragonknight with a sigh. "I can protect him from any who wish to do him harm and carry out any command he chooses to give to me, but try as I might I cannot protect him from himself. One day, it'll be a fast that kills him, when he refrains from food for too long and grows too weak to recover no matter how hard the maesters might try to heal him or the septons might pray."  
  
 _...and it can't happen soon enough!_  
  
"It'll be a  _tragedy_ ," she said with nothing but sarcasm and fake grief. "Well, I suppose that's one way to sanctify a sept : having the man who had it built buried beneath it."  
  
Even Aemon laughed at that, even though he shouldn't...and as they got under way and started to ride back to the castle - Aemon taking a position between the two - she couldn't help but wonder what her husband-to-be looked like beneath those expensive clothes of his.  _I suppose it shan't be long before I get to stop imagining and find out for myself. It'll be a night to remember._  
  
 _Then again, I'm probably going to be drunk and not able to remember everything, since Baelor is probably going to let me have as much wine as I might want...not that'll be hard to remember being ploughed into the ground, so long as he can still perform after having so much -_  
  
"Jonnel, have you ever been..."floppy" from too much wine?" she quickly asked.  
  
"What?" the Stark replied in confusion, not knowing what she was referring to.  
  
 _That answers that question._  
  
"Nevermind. Just focus on the ride."  
  
 _Oh, this is going to be **so**  much fun._  
  


****  
 **End of Part 1**  



	2. A Song of Love and Wedding Preparations

 

****  
**The Red Keep, a few days later...**

Daena let out a wordless sigh as Elaena tugged on the strings of her long wedding dress, her sister's slim fingers deftly tying the laces into tiny knots and making the new fabrics more accustomed to Daena's body, ready for the night when she would walk into the sept and become a married women. It was a massive thing of black and red silk, with golden buttons shaped like dragon heads and sewn to the satin cloth with golden thread, and the dress itself was the first of her wedding gifts from her uncle Viserys, who, as Hand of the King, had taken on the immense task of planning the wedding and the feast that would follow it.  
_  
With how many gold dragons he is spending on this wedding, one would think it was the king getting married, but since Baelor is married to his books...well, it means I get to have a massive wedding to show off how wealthy we -_  
  
She gasped again as the laces hugged her middle tight, making her bosom appear all the larger by contrast.  
  
"Seven hells," she murmured as she glanced over her shoulder to her sister. "He could have bought me a bigger dress at least."  
  
"Can you still breath?" Elaena asked, checking to see if her knots were too tight.  
  
"Just barely," Daena winced, stretching out her arms. "I think our uncle might as well cancel the wedding feast, seeing as I won't be able to eat anything in this..."  
  
"Then I think I need to tighten it just a little bit more," Elaena japed, getting a pained laugh in reply. "I think it's a perfect fit, you just need to loosen the cloth a little by moving around in it for a while."  
  
"And it is better to do that now than on the wedding night," Daena sighed as she rose to her feet, grateful that her legs at least had room to move. "I want to be sore _after_ the bedding and not a moment before it."  
  
She glanced at herself in the mirror...and smiled at the sight of herself dressed in black and red. _I haven't worn these colors since father died...I always wore white, to try and shame Baelor into being a man and doing his husbandly duties, but it never worked. But I won't have to do anything like that again._  
  
She let out a breath of relief, grateful that the nightmare would soon be over, and her sister smiled.  
  
"You look like the Maiden," Elaena said with a soft and happy voice.  
  
"Then let's hope that Jonnel thinks the same," she said with amusement. "With luck, he'll take it as a challenge and stop me from being one."  
  
Elaena laughed, falling back into her seat with a smile. "It isn't very ladylike to be _that_ excited for the bedding, you know."  
  
"But it is very ladylike to want to have lots of children," Daena answered with a smile. "And having lots of children means having lots and _lots_ of "beddings". Besides, I am making up for lost time, like a good wife should."  
  
Elaena laughed again. "You're not even married yet and you called yourself a wife!"  
  
"Well, unless my betrothed is suddenly crushed by a falling roof tile, I will be one in a week or two," she answered with crossed arms and a slight smile. "Then we'll ride north to Winterfell and I will never, ever have to hear Baelor going on and on about chastity again."  
  
"Not quite the usual happily-ever-after from the stories, is it?" Elaena teased.  
  
"And thank the Seven for that!"  
  
The two sisters laughed together...  
  
...and then Daena felt a pang of constricting pain in her chest and pulled on the front of the dress to make a little more room.  
  
"Now, I think that's enough of wearing this for one day," she said quietly, careful to avoid using too much air. "Would you mind?"  
  
"Here, let me loosen the top knot," Elaena said at last, quickly undoing the knot and letting Daena breathe more freely again. "I might have done that one a little too tight."  
  
"You could have said that earlier, at least!" Daena said with relief as she took a proper breath at last.  
  
"Then let me make it up for you!" Elaena said...and she shifted in her seat to one side, away from the little pillow she was sat on, and lifted it to reveal a small wooden box.  
  
"I managed to get this from a Lysene trader the same day Viserys sent me to get your dress," she said quickly, undoing the latch to reveal a book with thick leathery bindings. "I thought about giving it you during the wedding, but...well, I don't think its the kind of thing you might want people knowing you have, if you get what I am trying to say."  
  
"Oh?" she asked with a playing but curious smile. "Is it a book of spells that I can use to vanquish my enemies?"  
  
"Oh, it is much better than that," Elaena said with a wide smile. "Not something you'll want to tell anyone about, and you _certainly_ didn't get it from me if Baelor finds out you have it."  
  
Her interest peaked, Daena reached out for the book, taking its velvety surface in hand before flipping it over to the front, glancing at its surface where the book's title was written in golden thread. _A Treatise on the Value of Trade...? Not exactly what I was expecting as a wedding gift.  
_  
"Is this a merchant's book?" she asked in confusion.  
  
"Skip to chapter six," Elaena answered with a sly smile, raising a cup of wine for a sip.  
  
Daena looked back to the book and flipped the cover over to the contents page, glancing at the words. Apparently, the entire book seemed to be about the ways that a crafty merchant captain could make a fortune by travelling from one port to another and simply listening to the crowds on the docks and in the taverns to hear what goods were needed most. Skipping through the pages to chapter six, every page she glanced at seemed to be exactly what the book said it to be...till she came to chapter six, and found a smaller book with a soft, velvet cover placed inside the larger, the remaining six chapters of the book nothing but blank pieces of parchment glued together. Intrigued, she set the larger book down and took the smaller one out, turning to its violet cover...and her eyes went wide.  
  
"A Song of Love and Lust?" she asked teasingly as she glanced over to her sister. "Oh, I wonder what my sweet, innocent little sister has been reading?"  
  
Elaena laughed and blushed, and Daena turned the cover...and inside were well drawn pictures and informative instructions, all of it was on a topic that would make a septa run in horror for fear of losing her innocence merely by glancing at the pages in front of her, so detailed were the great and colorful "diagrams" that covered every page alongside lengthy descriptions of how to get the most pleasure out of each and every position.  
  
"I think I will keep this one close at hand," she said with a smile, tapping her fingers off its cover. "And _definitely_ before the bedding."  
  
"It's the same book that the best Lysene courtesans use," Elaena explained with a smile. "They even have copies of it in Braavos!"  
  
"And the other book is just a cover to stop anyone from finding out that it's there," Daena realized. "If someone was ever curious, they could open the book and read a dozen pages without even realizing that it is there. Very clever."  
  
"I thought you would like it!" Elaena said happily as she put her wine cup down on a small table nearby. "It's better than just buying you something you would never use, anyway."  
  
"Believe me when I say I am going to put this to good use," she said with a smile before slipping the book back into its hiding place and sitting down in her own seat. "And I have been doing a little thinking about how -"  
  
Then there was a knock at the door, heavy and strong in the way that only a knight's knock could be.  
  
"I'll tell you another time," she said quickly and quietly as Elaena let out a sigh. "Come in!"  
  
The door opened, and her white cloaked cousin entered, Dark Sister sheathed at his waist and with his shield on his back, ready for a moment's notice. "Your betrothed wishes to speak with you in the godswood, cousin."  
  
Daena smiled before turning to her sister. "Want to come along? You haven't had a chance to meet him since he and his father got here."  
_  
Baelor won't even allow me to take meals with Jonnel till after we are married, not even with Aemon watching to make sure nothing happens...and it's the same for Elaena, too. She's almost never let out of her chambers, except when she is allowed to come here and talk to me. Damn that madman who calls himself my brother, I won't leave her here no matter what he wishes!_  
  
"I suppose I should get to know the man who will be my good-brother more," Elaena said. "But let's get you out of that dress, first. You don't want him to see you in it before the wedding day, do you?"  
  
"I will wait outside," Ser Aemon said, beating a quick withdrawal from the chamber and closing the door behind him.  
_  
Baelor goes on and on about doing the right thing, but if he really wanted to be a good man, then he would be more like Aemon and not some overly pious lunatic.  
_  
"Well, let's get started," Elaena said as she started quickly undoing the knots holding up Daena's dress. "Just half an hour every day from this point on till the wedding, and it should fit perfectly!"  
  
"This wouldn't have even been needed if you had simply told Viserys to get me a larger dress that I would not _need_ to stretch into the right size in the first place," Daena sighed, half out of weariness and half out of relief as she felt the cloth getting looser and looser upon her skin.  
  
"It does make you look more...womanly, though," Elaena answered quietly, focused on the strings. "Besides, it's only half an hour at most. How bad could it be?"  
  
"I would show you how bad it is if you had any breasts," Daena laughed, relaxing as the front of her dress slid down enough for her to be able to truly breath naturally again. "Seven, I think the part I will like the most about the bedding is when I get to take this damned thing off."  
  
"All the more reason to celebrate, then," her sister smiled at last, removing the final knot, leaving Daena rubbing the places on her sides and shoulder where the tight dress had bitten her most. "And done!"  
  
"Now to just get dressed all over again..." Daena sighed...before getting dressed all over again.  


 

****

Jonnel silently slid the cleaning rag down the length of his steel sword, leaning against the large oak tree that stood within the centre of the Red Keep's godswood, surrounded by the dull red dragon's breath flowers that filled the grassy meadows and grew around the heart tree, giving the godswood a dash of the red that would otherwise be missing without a true wierwood within its four walls. There was no snow amidst the lush green grasses, or ponds bubbling with the warmth of underground springs or misting in the cold air, but the air was still and soothing all the same, the one place familiar to him within the strange world of the southern kingdoms and within the massive, sprawling city of King's Landing. There was no face carved into the tree he rested against, no eyes dripping red sap, but the stillness of the air, the calmness of the wind as it gently blew through the leaves and the blades of grass, all of made him _feel_ as though his gods were still with him, even in the heartland of the South so far away from the castle of his birth.  
  
It was a quiet place, a place where he could reflect on everything that had happened and would soon be happening...but nothing kept his mind's attention more than his previous wife. Robyn Ryswell.  
  
He had not loved her, that was true, but he had grown fond of her over the few years of their marriage all the same, a friend if not a lover, and he could remember her pained anguish, her tears of grief, over not being able to mother a child. Three times had they conceived a child and three times had they died in her womb before ever once having a chance to draw breath...and three times had he remembered the sight of her hopes and dreams of having a son or daughter of her own fade from her eyes and be replaced by unending tears, just as he could remember the three small oaken boxes she had buried not far from the wierwood tree. He could remember it all, the tears on her cheeks as she realized what was happening to her, how cold she had felt once the warmth of her body had left her after final loss, the stench of iron blood wafting through the air.  
  
He could remember it all. The sobs, the sights, the smells. It haunted him.  
  
_And it is exactly what I need to speak to her about. I don't know if she knows I have been married once before. I haven't even had much of a chance to speak with her since we arrived...but this is something she has to know._  
  
_But what am I to say?  
  
That I had a wife before her who died because of the child I put inside of her? That I fear that something of the same sort could happen to her? That she could die the same way that Robyn did?_  
  
He sighed, desperately wishing that his father could tell him what to do, what to say, but this time he was on his own, alone with a wound still aching inside of him.  
  
_She was my wife. Her death doesn't change that.  
_  
He raised his sword up, looking at the grey steel in the golden light of the sun. It was utterly spotless, but he lowered it down and put the oiled rag to the steel once more, to start the repetitive task of cleaning it all over again, to keep the worst of the thoughts at bay...but even still, some few slipped through, like arrows punching through plate. Was it simply something wrong with her, or was it his fault that she had died? That their children had died before birth? That she had never had the chance to have her dream of holding her own child in her arms?  
  
It ate away at him, like worms boring through a rotting apple, and it made him all the more grateful when he heard and saw the door open at last. The first through was his bride-to-be, Daena, dressed in rougher clothes than the elaborate dress that he had seen her wearing when they had first met, a long black dress more like the one her sister had worn, easier to clean if it picked up any dirt from the crumbly soil. Her long locks of silver gold hair had been tamed for the time being by brush or by comb, but he could still see them curling back to their natural shape, resting atop her shoulders and reaching down to her bosom, and she met him with what could only be her usual smile, her happiness to be free of her chambers for the time being all too apparent.  
  
Behind her followed Ser Aemon of the Kingsguard, a towering sentinel of white armor and white cloak, the early afternoon sun gleaming off of the dragon that rose from the back of his helm, a dragon with three necks and three heads and the only decor present on his shining armor and the source of his reputation as the _Dragonknight,_ and hidden in his shadow for but a moment was his betrothed's younger sister, Elaena, a girl who was small for her age and still growing and not quite as beautiful as Daena herself, but the striking contrast of the bright gold streak in her hair, surrounded by brilliant white silver and carefully woven through her long braid, caught his eye for a moment all the same, but it did not stop him from sighing under his breath at his want for privacy and a chance to speak with his bride-to-be alone.  
  
"Jonnel!" Daena said happily, striding over to him with a smile...before looking to his face and seeing his somber look, her violet eyes narrowing in concern. "...is there something wrong?"  
  
_...I can't tell her now, not whilst Elaena and Aemon are here. It wouldn't be right._  
  
"Nothing," he said quietly, feeling a tinge of guilt for souring her mood when he knew how rarely she was ever happy in her chambers. "It's nothing."  
  
"I am here if you want to say anything," she said softly, sitting down next to him besides the oak tree. "You know all my ghosts already."  
  
"Another time," he sighed, trying to bury his grief for the time being and instead placing his attentions on the beautiful maiden besides him, his future wife. She smiled.  
  
"I've brought Elaena along with me," Daena said, perking up once more as her younger sister came over, almost shy in comparison to how she had been when Jonnel first met his betrothed. "She is going to be your good sister once we are married, and yet you two have barely even spoken to one another."  
  
"To be fair, you and I are to be married and we have barely even spoken," Jonnel answered, to Daena's amusement, before he turned towards the smaller Targaryen girl. "A pleasure, my lady."  
  
"Greetings," she said courteously, sitting down besides her sister and seemingly at a loss as what to say.  
  
_Think...gods, this would be much easier if Baelor allowed me to visit her more than once every couple of days. We have to break through the quiet almost every damned time because of it._  
  
Daena prodded her sister in the side with her elbow, trying to get her to speak, and at last, Elaena spoke. "I am sorry for how I was when you first came here...I am normally more polite than that, but seeing my sister sad was too much."  
  
"It's alright," Jonnel forgave. "I would have done the same thing if my own sisters were saddened."  
  
"You have sisters of your own?" Elaena asked with a curious voice as her elder sister looked on with interest. "How many?"  
  
"Five," Jonnel answered. "Sarra, Alys, Raya, Mariah and Lyanna. The first four were from my father's second marriage, and Lyanna from his third."  
  
"Seven hells," Daena laughed almost instantly. "And I thought my family was large! Just how many are you?"  
  
"A lot," Jonnel answered to the amusement of the two maidens before going on to say, "I have two nieces and two younger brothers, too."  
  
"Nieces!" Elaena said in realization. "Rickon Stark was your elder brother, wasn't he? Cregan's son from his first marriage?"  
  
"He was," Jonnel sighed, remembering the brave elder brother who had gone to Dorne with the king. "The Dornish killed him outside Sunspear in the final battle of the war."  
  
"Daeron said he never saw a man half so courageous," Daena said softly before her voice filled with pain and hurt. "It seems the Dornish took someone from the both of us."  
  
"Daeron was a hero," Jonnel said honestly, putting his arm around his betrothed and holding her close.  
  
"I miss him," Daena said sadly, Elaena leaning on her the same way that Daena leaned on him. "He was a good king and a good brother. He died much too young."  
  
"He wouldn't ever treat us the way Baelor does," Elaena sighed. "Why couldn't it have been the other way around? Why couldn't Daeron have lived and Baelor have died?"  
  
"I wonder that every time I go back to my chambers," Daena sighed, anger replacing grief. "His own brother was killed under guest right, and Baelor...he doesn't even have the balls to do anything about it! Any other man would have executed the hostages the hostages, and yet Baelor hands them back with an apology, an **apology** , for ever invading in the first place!"  
  
"That's enough, Daena," Ser Aemon said more firmly.  
  
"And _you!_ " Elaena snapped, her attention instantly going to the Dragonknight. "You were swore to protect him!"  
  
_...Seven hells. I think I may have chosen the wrong -_  
  
"And I damn well tried!" came the white knight's snarling answer. "Three of my sworn brothers died fighting to save his life, and Seven damn **you** , I held him in my arms till the Dornish dragged me off of him and slapped manacles around my wrists and threw me in a cage!"  
  
"Nothing could make me happier in life than to have a chance to see my king avenged," the white cloaked knight said, his voice lower and without the anger that had filled it only seconds before. "But Baelor _is_ king. If he commands us to sheathe our swords, then what choice do we have _but_ to sheathe them?"  
  
"...you do not like the king either?" Jonnel asked with surprise, calming tempers before either Daena or Elaena had a chance to reply.  
  
"It is the duty of every sworn brother of the Kingsguard to protect their king and his family," Aemon answered swiftly.  
  
"Oh, you're trying to evade his question," Elaena said with a teasing voice, leaning forward.  
  
"I am not," Ser Aemon answered.  
  
"You are," Daena agreed. "Go on and tell us! We won't say anything."  
  
Ser Aemon met her with a piercing, amethyst gaze.  
  
"It matters not whether the Kingsguard approve of their king -"  
  
"He doesn't!" Elaena laughed triumphantly. "You don't like King Baelor!"  
  
"I had a feeling as much!" Daena grinned, leaning back against the tree and resting her head on Jonnel's shoulder.  
  
The Dragonknight merely sighed in response to their accusations, saying nothing and doing nothing...and content in her victory, Daena turned her attentions back towards her future husband.  
  
"I was actually curious about something, if you wouldn't mind answering a question?"  
  
"You are going to be my wife, so feel free to ask anything you want."  
  
Her eyes went wide and hopeful.  
  
"Are there still direwolves in the North?"  
  
"There might be," he said carefully to avoid breaking her hopes, "My father once told me a story how the Stark kings would sometimes let their direwolves out into the Wolfswood, to help stop them from getting complacent and to help keep their hunting instincts alive, but sometimes they would come back with pups, too."  
  
"The last direwolf was a male and died when my father was eight," he said truthfully, remembering the stories his father had told him of the massive beast of grey and white. "But maybe there was a she-wolf in the woods he gave some pups to before he died, and there are always tales of direwolves from beyond the Wall."  
  
"My own father saw the last dragon," Daena said quietly, resting on his shoulder. "It was a tiny and weak little thing, he said. Green like grass, but with dim brown eyes. It was stunted and deformed, and my father said it was because the eggs needed to be kept warm, else the dragon inside could never grow properly and would come out sickly. My sister has one of the eggs it laid."  
  
"It's silver and gold, like my hair," Elaena said happily. "I don't know if it will ever hatch, but I hope it does."  
  
"I wish I had a dragon," Daena said wistfully, daydreaming on his shoulder. "I would take them flying everyday, and hunt with my bow from dragonback."  
  
"You have a bow?" Jonnel asked with interest. "I didn't think southron maidens were allowed such a thing?"  
  
"I do," she said with a smile. "I told you I had an interest in hunting and riding, remember?"  
  
"I seem to recall having my attentions...elsewhere."  
  
"Well, good to see that I left a lasting impression," she said with a sultry look in her eye that lasted not even a second before she played innocent again. "But yes, I have a bow. It's a recurve, short enough that I could shoot it from horseback if I so pleased. I use it to hunt with."  
  
"Are you any good with it?"  
  
"Better than you, probably," Daena said with a teasing smile.  
  
"Oh, we will see about that," Jonnel answered.  
  
Daena smiled again, then leaned in for a kiss, so Jonnel reached for her waist to return it...and instead of tasting her, he tasted cold metal, and looked to see Dark Sister's smoky grey steel blocking his path.  
  
"The king says no kissing, either," Ser Aemon said with an apologetic voice. "You have to wait till after you're married."  
  
"Seven hells! Does he think Jonnel will deflower me with his mouth?"  
  
"That can happen you know," Elaena said quietly, mumbling the name of a book Jonnel had never heard of before.  
  
"It isn't up to me, cousin," Ser Aemon shrugged. "King Baelor says no kissing, lovemaking or otherwise intimate touching till after the wedding takes place. Nor long visits, for that matter, so we best be leaving."  
  
"I guess that means we will have to wait," Daena said with a sigh...which she used to mask her words as she leaned in. "But once we are married, I'm going to chain you to the bed till we make up for lost time."  
  
Jonnel laughed as Daena and Elaena rose to their feet, his betrothed and her sister waving goodbye before heading out the door with Ser Aemon in tow, who gave him a respectful and approving nod.  
  
Then he started to wonder whether she was joking or not.  


 

****  
**End of Part 2!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! :D The long awaited second part of A Northern Dragoness! In a way, this is the calm before the storm, to tie things from the first part to the third which will be where things really get going with the wedding taking place, but this does fill in some important things.
> 
> I'd do a longer summary, but it's a bit late - its one in the morning to be precise - and I have been working on this all day, so I and my hands need a rest and some sleep, but to sum things up:
> 
> 1\. Daena and Elaena make preparations for the wedding, which will take place in the next part, and Elaena gives her elder sister a book that will come in hand during the bedding, which, incidentally, will also take place in the next part :p
> 
> 2\. Jonnel struggles with the grief of losing his first wife, Robyn Ryswell, but cannot bring himself to talk to Daena about it whilst Elaena is there. This wound is pretty fresh, as we can see in the first chapter and his objections to his own father, and even though he didn't have the sort of love for Robyn that Eddard has for Catelyn in the series, he still cared about her as a friend, which makes her miscarriages and eventual death weigh on him all the heavier...especially since it was the failed pregnancies that killed her. 
> 
> 3\. Daena and Elaena arrive at the Godswood of the Red Keep to speak with Jonnel, and though he can't bring himself to speak to her about what it is that he wanted to speak to her about, he brings up other matters...such as Daeron's death during the invasion of Dorne. Needless to say, Daena is not fond of Dornishmen in the slightest, thanks to them killing her beloved elder brother.


	3. Part 3

****  
 **The Red Keep, a few days later...**

Jonnel nearly sighed as he felt his groom struggling with the small buttons of his new shirt, each and every one painstakingly carved from walrus ivory and threaded with good string to bind them to the cloth beneath, the heir to Winterfell trying to stay as still as he could to make the work as easy as it might be for the servant and to make everything that was to be worn fit  _perfectly_ , as his father demanded it. All around him were the clothes for his wedding, fresh from the best tailors and jewelers in King's Landing and brought to the Red Keep under armed guard to ensure that they could not be misplaced nor allowed to come into the path of dirt or grime before the wedding was over and done, utterly spotless and never before worn except by the mannequins that served to give them form before they could be placed upon his frame and to avoid creasing...and even the groom who was given the task of dressing him had been made to shave with an obsidian blade and wear a hat upon his head to stop the risk of any hairs from falling onto the clothes he tended, just as he had to wear soft gloves of doeskin to stop his fingers from potentially marring the finish on his metal and ivory work.  
  
"Even if it makes you unable to do them at all," he muttered under his breath, watching as the servant lost his grip again. "You've been stuck on that button for nearly ten minutes."  
  
"Forgive me, my lord," the groom apologized instantly. "The buttons are too small for me to work with gloves. If I could take them off -"  
  
"You will do no such thing," his father said from across the room, raising his grey eyes from the book before him and reaching out for a glass of Stormlander ale. "Touch those buttons with your fingers and it'll be the last time you  _have_ fingers at all."  
  
"Yes, my lord," the groom said quietly and with a fearful nod, swallowing hard before going back to work.  
  
"A little harsh, father," Jonnel said as loudly as he could. "They are doing the best they can."  
  
"It is not enough for you to simply be marrying a princess, Jonnel," his father answered, taking a sip of his drink before placing it back upon the table. "You must  _appear_ to be marrying a princess as well. A mummer would be laughed at if they thought to walk onto the stage looking improperly dressed for their part."  
  
"And like a mummer, you must look the part you play," his father said as he looked to him for the first time. "I will not have anyone looking to your wear and thinking that you are a poor bridegroom, an embarrassment to Winterfell undeserving of a Targaryen's hand and maidenhood. Is that understood?"  
  
"It is, father," was Jonnel's answer as the servant bit down to steady his hands, carefully aligning shirt and button to slide one into the other. "I won't embarrass the family."  
  
"Good," Cregan said, a slight smile spreading to aged cheeks and a respectful nod as he looked down to the text, a copy of the  _Seven Sided Star_ , bound in dark buckskin and with its title embroidered upon the front in golden thread. "Whilst your groom has been fumbling with the buttons, I have been reading about Andal weddings like the kind Baelor insists upon."  
  
"They are a rather simple affair, certainly when compared to Valyrian ones," he continued, his words mingling with the soft noise of parchment pages being turned. "You and your bride will stand before two statues of the Mother and the Father, hand in hand. Then seven ribbons will be brought forth, one for each of the gods and each dyed in another of their colors, will be wrapped around your hands, binding you together."  
  
"Then you will need to say words."  
  
"What words?"  
  
"The name of the Seven, in order, at the same time as she does," his father explained. "You will both say the Father, the septon will state that the Father blesses the new union and witnesses it as just and legal, then they will bind your hands together with a red ribbon."  
  
"That seems simple enough,"  
  
"It is," his father smiled. "So long as you are not fool enough to not know the name of the Seven - and if you need a reminder, glance at the statues from left to right and you'll have them in order - you will be fine. Merely remember to say them all again in reverse order at the end when the Septon brings forth a white ribbon with which to tie the wedding knot together."  
  
"...white?"  
  
"The Seven-who-are- _ **One**_ ," Cregan said simply, placing his emphasis on the last word. "The Faith doesn't have seven gods. It has one god with seven faces...think of a weirwood. It might have a dozen roots, but they are all still part of the same tree. In any case, the wedding is not over till the knot is tied. It may be removed later, but not before leaving the sept and preferably not before the seventh course of the wedding feast."  
  
Jonnel looked to his father, confused. "Then how am I supposed to place my cloak around her shoulders if my hand is tied to hers?"  
  
"...a good question," Cregan murmured, glancing down to the pages, taking them by the corner and flipping back and forth before speaking up. "There's no mention of it here, which means that it must have been a tradition the First Men gave them."  
  
Then an idea lit in his father's eye.  
  
"You, groom," Cregan asked with a hard voice, the servant seeming to jump in fright and losing grip of the button he had nearly finished as he did. "Are you a married man?"  
  
"Y-yes, my lord."  
  
"And you were married in the Andal fashion?"  
  
"It was a small -"  
  
"It is a question you answer with a yes or a no," his father stated flatly.  
  
"Yes, lord."  
  
"When did you put a cloak around your wife's shoulders?" Cregan asked, voice softening once more. "Even lowborn do that, do they not?"  
  
"We do," the servant answered quickly and respectfully. "It's a plain cloak, but we do. Its at the start."  
  
Cregan reached into a pocket and threw him two silver stags that the servant couldn't catch before they struck the ground, fingers made stiff by the the leather of his gloves, leaving him scrabbling on the ground for them, barely able to get his finger tips beneath their edges to raise them up at all.  
  
"Begone with you," the Lord of Winterfell said, rising from his seat at last. "I can do the rest from here."  
  
"Of course, my lord," the servant nodded, coins in hand as he hurried for the door and opened it enough to slip through and no more.  
  
"You were torturing the poor man," Jonnel sighed.  
  
"He is paid to do a job," Cregan answered, pulling a chair across the floor to sit before his son, taking the groom's place. "If he cannot do it right then he should get out of the way for someone who can and count his blessings he was given the chance to do it at all. I could go into the streets of King's Landing and find a hundred men who would see it as a miracle to have the chance to get the kind of coin he is paid just to dress a man."  
  
"Aren't you going to wear gloves?" Jonnel half-japed. "You'll tarnish the buttons."  
  
"You know, Jonnel, a boy is never too old to not get a beating from their father," Cregan said, half-japing just as his son was. "No, they won't be needed. Unlike the groom, I know full well that I bathed this morning...and a few slight imperfections here and there will make it seem more real and honest."  
  
 _And less like you staged it all for a show of family mummery,_  Jonnel thought to himself, daring not to say it.  
  
"Speak, boy," his father commanded, as if he could peer into his mind and as if Jonnel was still a child. "I saw that look on your face, like your mother had just caught you with you hand stuck in the biscuit jar."  
  
"I understand that we are doing this to look stronger in the eyes of the rest of the realm, father, but is it really necessary to go this far?" he asked. "No one would think anything wrong of it if I simply went to the wedding after dressing myself."  
  
"And none would think anything good of it, either," Cregan countered, starting to do the buttons with bare hands, far faster than the groom had ever been. "It isn't enough for them to simply accept your marriage, Jonnel. They must be impressed by it, by our family, by  _you_ , else we'll lose one of the best prizes we will get from your wedding."  
  
"And what is that?"  
  
"The impression of strength and wealth we leave on the nobles who came here to witness the ceremony," the Lord of Winterfell explained, making Jonnel stand. "What? Did you think I went through all this trouble just to make you look good for the wedding?"  
  
"I knew there had to be something more at play," Jonnel said in understanding. "So this is a demonstration to the rest of the realm about Northern strength?"  
  
Cregan laughed in answer.  
  
"It's a demonstration of how strong we would like to be," the Lord of Winterfell said, reaching over to the table for another sip before setting the cup far from the clothes neatly piled atop of it, safe from spillage. "If there is any lesson I would want you to remember of mine, its that something can only be as strong as it seems to be. A crow won't go for crops that are guarded by a man, whether or not they are made out of flesh and blood or straw and sticks...so what's the difference between the man and a scarecrow if it can't tell them apart?"  
  
And then Cregan smiled.  
  
"The same goes for the southern realms," his father continued, more quietly than before. "If everything they see about the North says it is a strong realm with wealth and troops in abundance, how will they know otherwise? And a man can only act based on what he knows, so if they believe that the North is strong and able to take them on easily, aye, that it might crush them outright, then all's the better."  
  
"This doesn't seem very honorable," Jonnel said with concern. "Won't the rest of the realm find out eventually and shame us for it?"  
  
"Go before a weeping widow who has lost her husband and all her sons to war and see if you can tell her that they died with honor," Cregan countered instantly, as though he had countered such words a hundred times before. "It matters not whether they died honorably and bravely and for the glory of Winterfell, because they still  _ **died**_. Better that we lie through our teeth and have the whole realm think us dishonorable scum than march our sons to die in meaningless battles that we could have avoided with just a single, simple bluff to make others think we are stronger than we truly are."  
  
Then it clicked...and Jonnel looked to his father with surprised eyes.  
  
"You're doing this for me?"  
  
"It took you that long to realize, boy?" Cregan asked with surprise, amazed his son had yet to realize. "Did your wetnurse drop you on your head where you were still in swaddling?"  
  
Before the heir could answer the lord, there was a low rumbling laugh from the elder Stark that instantly veiled whatever feelings might have lurked behind before they could be shown, like clouds blotting out the warmth of an autumn sun and making the day cold and grey once more. It was something Jonnel had seen before, a hundred times before even, even if the exact way he did it varied from time to time - sometimes he would simply look back to the flames of the hearth, sometimes he would take his cup and refill it, sometimes he would simply change position in his chair and meet him with his cold grey eyes, but everytime,  _everytime_ , he changed the topic, never leaving so much as a silence to answer the questions that forever went unsaid.  
  
Now was no exception...and Jonnel didn't even think to try and turn things back.  
  
"In any case," his father began anew, rising to his feet to adjust the top most buttons, grabbing the sides of Jonnel's shirt and shifting them ever so slightly to the side to make it fit all the more properly, even if it did no longer sit naturally on him. "There will be much work to be done for the wedding, and we have little time to do it before she arrives at the sept to begin getting dressed herself."  
  
"We're going to be early, then?"  
  
"There is no such thing as early for a man on his wedding day," was the answer. "Besides, it will allow the people of King's Landing a chance to see you whilst you stand vigil before the Mother and the Father and know that you are ready for what is to come next. That will be the wedding where you will give her your cloak, swear your vows to her and have her hand tied to yours before we return to the Red Keep for the feast and the bedding."  
  
 _The bedding,_  the thought echoed in his mind with his father's voice.  _Gods, not the bedding...I know I should want her, she's beautiful...but..._  
  
Jonnel went pale. He could still remember his Robyn. How sweet her laughter was. How feeble her voice had sounded on that last day. How soft her hair had felt in his hands when he held her on the day they learnt she was with child for the first time. How cold she had felt at the end of it all. How her cheeks had flushed with warmth when they were bedded. How pale she had been as she looked to him with tears in her eyes.  
  
More than anything else, he could remember how happy she had been to become a mother and more than anything else, he could remember how her joy had turned to ash her dreams had died...and his fingers trembled at the thought and his mouth went dry.  
  
It was not the losses that had killed her, not the three children that had died before they ever had a chance to truly live, not the bloodloss, not even the fever the maester worried she might have had on that last day and which would have surely taken her even if the bleeding hadn't.  
  
It was him that did it.  
  
It was Jonnel that had been her husband and filled her with love and life and it was that life that had cost hers. If she had never been married to him, if he had never touched her, she would still be alive.  
  
"I am not so sure this is a good idea, father," Jonnel said, a growing uncertainty twisting inside of him, like a dagger in his chest. "What if something goes wrong?"  
  
"What do you mean?" his father asked, eyebrow raised as he turned to get his son's doublet, a massive and heavy thing of snow white decorated with direwolves sewn in silver thread, prancing as if on a winter's field and with wolf's head clasps.  
  
"Marrying her."  
  
"Now is a poor time to get uncertain of whether or not she suits you. These clothes cost a fortune," his father seemed to jape...and then his eyes narrowed. "...you are serious, aren't you?"  
  
"Robyn married me and she died because of it, father," Jonnel said. "I don't want another woman to die because of my child."  
  
"You didn't murder her, you damned fool," was his father's answer. "You make it sound like she was murdered by brigands because she was your wife. She died in  _childbirth_. That can happen to any woman, highborn or low."  
  
"You don't know what it is it like," he almost shouted in answer. "I watched her  ** _die!_**  Not just once, but  ** _three_** times! Each time she lost a child she lost another part of what made her Robyn, she lost  _everything_ she wanted to be, and I won't do that to another woman! Not like you did!"  
  
"I should hit you where you stand for that, boy," his father snapped, angry.  
  
"You could, but what would it say about our family if I turn up at my wedding with a black eye?" Jonnel asked knowingly, arms crossed. "It wouldn't make the North look very good, now would it?"  
  
And for the tiniest and most fleeting moment he thought he saw his father smile.  
  
"We are already committed at this point, Jonnel," Cregan sighed, a true and honest sigh. "The betrothal has been made and lords and ladies have come from across the Seven Kingdoms for the wedding, gifts in tow. We can't go back now. We must go forward, whether we wish to or not, lest the entire realm look to us and wonder why we chose to stop now...yet alone what the Targaryens would think when they find out we no longer wish to marry one of their princesses."  
  
"What if I don't want to?" Jonnel countered, calming. "I know enough about Andal weddings to know that vows made at swordpoint aren't valid, so you can't force me. And even if you tried, I could go to the Wall."  
  
His father looked at him then, the same way he had looked at Baelor on the day they came to the Red Keep, the same way he had looked at hundreds of lords who had come to Winterfell either with problems to be solved or as problems to be solved.  
  
"Aye, perhaps you don't want to marry her," Cregan said, changing tactics. "But are you so against the idea of marriage that you would damn Daena to wasting her life in a tower by turning her down here and now? On her wedding day? The day many southron women dream of since the day they are old enough to know what it is? The day she might escape Baelor once and for all?"  
  
It was everything he could do not to call his father a manipulative bastard...and everything he couldn't not to sigh in understanding. He was right - if he chose not to marry her now, however he did it, then he would be consigning his betrothed back to the tower Baelor kept her in, right on the very day she would finally be free of it.  
  
He couldn't bring himself to do it, he could never bring himself to crush a woman's hopes and dreams in front of her. It was the exact reason he didn't want to marry Daena made into the exact reason he had to.  
  
"Damn you," he said quietly.  
  
"You say that, but I understand," Cregan said, meeting him eye to eye as he slid the doublet around his son's shoulders, helping him put his arms into the sleeves. "I had two wives before your mother, and I lost them the same way you lost your Robyn. Ask any septon in this city and they will tell you that the most deadly thing a woman can do is give birth. But we have no choice but to push on just as they have no choice but to risk it, else the world would be a cold, dead place indeed."  
  
"But if the thought troubles you so," his father stated, using his handkerchief to polish the direwolf clasps to shining silver, expression softening as he did. "Then tell her your fears."  
  
"Before the wedding?"  
  
"After," Cregan corrected. "Once you two are wedded and bedded you will be husband and wife...and the journey from here to Winterfell will be long. Enough time for you to take her aside and tell her about your fears. It's not like she can change her mind about being your wife once you have both been bedded, but more, it lets her have her wedding day without concern."  
  
"But I would rather make sure she was happy with it before we were wed," Jonnel sighed. "I wouldn't want to take her from a tower here in King's Landing only to put her in one in Winterfell where she dies in childbirth."  
  
"She knows what her duties will be," Cregan said at last, either out of a tiredness for his son's uncertainties or out of an attempt try and reassure him, Jonnel could not be certain. "From the day she was born a septa or her mother or any other woman at court would have made sure, aye, and the text of the Faith too that her task is to manage the household, look after the properties of her family and  _have a **family**  of her own._ Why do you think there is so much importance placed on the bedding?"  
  
"It isn't to make a show of love and trust like in the songs, I tell you that," he answered before his son could. "It is because it is the first time the bride and the groom have a chance to make their marriage do what marriages are meant for: making children. Why else would there be all the theatrics about placing a cloak around her shoulders and bringing her into our house?"  
  
"Besides, from what my men in the city tell me, you're going to have little complaint about her willingness to come for bedding," Cregan smiled. "It seems she might well be more eager than you are."  
  
"...what do you mean?"  
  
"She's had that little sister of hers contact a blacksmith," he said. "Something about making chains for a bedpost."  
  
Jonnel's eyes narrowed in disbelief.  
  
"What?"  
  
"They're meant to have manacles wide enough around for a man's wrist."  
  
"...oh gods," Jonnel said before bursting into laughter. "She was  _serious_."  
  
"Serious about what?" Cregan asked with a knowing look in his eye, stepping back to examine his son's wear for any errors or mistakes that would be best fixed now, reaching to his cup of ale and taking a sip. "Making sure this marriage was consummated unlike the last?"  
  
"She said she was going to chain me to the bedposts."  
  
"You best not be complaining. Half the men in the realm would give their right hand for a woman with appetites like that. I doubt you even realize how lucky you are to have a woman who might as well love you already and wants to be bedded."  
  
"She is different than I was expecting," Jonnel admitted. "You said she was going to be a delicate southron maiden."  
  
"I was right on two of the three," his father excused. "Still, you will at least try to make it through your...feelings about the bedding?"  
  
"It sounds like she doesn't plan to give me much of a choice in the matter," he tried to jape to relieve his feelings only for his father to look at him, intent on an answer. "If she's willing to do it...then so will I. She has had enough trouble in her life as it is."  
  
"From what you have told me, you will truly be doing her a kindness," his father said, reaching over to adjust one of his son's direwolf clasps to make it face straight forward and brushing his shoulders to make them match. "Trapped in a tower all day, with naught for company but her little sister and with nothing to do but sit in silence. It sounds more akin to hell than not, and I can see why she is so eager to be gone from here."  
  
"I only hope she's happier in Winterfell," Jonnel said, his father nodding in understanding. "She'll be spending the rest of her life there."  
  
"I can't see her finding it any worse than here," his father reasoned, a hint of warmth coming through as he turned around and made his way to a small wooden trunk, brought in when he had first arrived earlier in the day and banded with rusting iron. "Now, for the most important part."  
  
Cregan reached down to the trunk and undid the latches with careful, even gentle movements of his hands before raising the lid...revealing a cloak that was older than its years showed, far older, refreshed with new dye and given the utmost care, a great mantle of heavy grey cloth that reached the floor and trimmed with furs as white as fresh fallen snow. Besides it were two metal clasps, steel hammered flat and given the shape and face of a wolf's head, unmarred by the rusting and ravaging of age and shining like new in Cregan's hand as the straps they were for dangled loose, the old lord taking the utmost care to keep it all safe and treating it with more respect than Jonnel had seen him treat anything.  
  
"Your wedding cloak," his father said, voice and smile soft. "It was the same one I placed around the shoulders of your mother, long before you were born, and the same one that my father placed around your grandmother, going back to before Aegon's Conquest."  
  
"You never brought it out on Robyn's wedding day," he said quietly. Why hadn't he done that? Had he never thought that his bride was worth the ceremony of bringing it out? Or was it Jonnel himself that Cregan hadn't favored, and made his father choose against -  
  
"No, I hadn't," his father said, words almost a whisper. "It had been sent to White Harbour for Rickon's wedding a month before. He was to be married when he came back from Dorne."  
  
His father stood still for a moment, examining the cloth.  
  
Then he turned towards his son.  
  
"But it is best that we do not talk about the things that could have been and today should be a happy day," Cregan said, forcing the pain out of his voice. "Regardless, it is only right that it should be the cloak to bring a Targaryen bride into the family."  
  
"Is it safe for me to wear it now? For the journey to the sept?"  
  
"Yes, I think so," his father murmured after a quiet second, lost for a heartbeat before growing certain once more. "But you best take care of it, or gods help you."  
  
"I will," Jonnel whispered, certain, his father nodding before carefully placing it around his heir's shoulders, fastening it in place with practiced hands. "Is there anything else?"  
  
"Only a few minor things," his father said. "But if there is anything you wish to talk about before the wedding, now is the time. We will be watched from the moment we leave this room till the bedding, and not once will we have the chance to talk again without someone noticing."  
  
"You already know what I am concerned about, father," he said simply. "There's little else to worry me."  
  
"And there is little that I can say that will soothe those worries," his father replied with a strange understanding. "The only words I can think to say is that we cannot allow our fears to rule us always, else we would damn ourselves to inaction and let our lives pass us by."  
  
Jonnel nodded in understanding, grateful. The bond between father and son was not as strong as it might be in other families, but not weak, either, for whilst Jonnel knew there were times that his father was treating him as though he were a playing card in some sailor's game, there were those times where he offered true advice. He did not love him as some sons might do their fathers, but he could respect him as a strong figure...and for all he knew, that was exactly how Cregan wished it to be, to have a son who would not blindly follow in his steps but who would consider what he did and why he did it and come to understand and  _learn_.  
  
Or mayhaps he was wrong, and his father simply thought that this was simply the way it should be, Jonnel couldn't know for sure.  
  
"Now, stand up straight and let me have a look at you," the father commanded to the son, crossing his arms and examining his son from head to heel as Jonnel stood before him, as straight and still as a statue, as he would before the alters and as he would when he was to be wed. "...only the hair needs doing."  
  
"Now I think you are just being silly, father," Jonnel laughed as Cregan reached to the table and picked up a small bone comb, carefully pressing down on his son's shoulder to lower him down to make it easier for him to reach. "How much of a difference can this make?"  
  
"With every other part of your body covered in clothes, the part of you that is exposed has to be perfect as well," his father countered. "No effort will be spared. Remember, the Targaryens have the power to decline this marriage up until the very moment your cloak is around her shoulders by law and up until the completion of the bedding by practicality."  
  
"But would they really turn us down now? After they've made so much effort and summoned half the realm?"  
  
"You realize Baelor has been fighting this every step of the way, do you not?" Cregan asked, pausing for a moment before moistening his handkerchief with a lick of his thumb, using it to adjust his son's hair. "His uncle Viserys is doing a great deal to help us along and make sure that his niece is wedded off in a ceremony worthy of a Targaryen princess, but King Baelor is...less eager. But by having the wedding done in a sept and everything else he might desire, we make sure that he has no excuses with which to cancel the wedding."  
  
"...I still don't know about having this wedding done in a sept," Jonnel sighed. "Will the gods be happy about it?"  
  
"It was one of Baelor's conditions for having the wedding done at  _all_ , you know how he feels about his Faith," his father answered. "Besides, what difference does it make?"  
  
"But it's an Andal sept," Jonnel said with concern. "They've killed hundreds of us."  
  
"And we've killed hundreds of them," Cregan said flatly, utterly unfazed by his son's concern. "Your point?"  
  
"It...doesn't seem proper," he admitted at last.  
  
And with that his father laughed.  
  
"I should have known that maester was right when he said you had trouble understanding the whole family tree, though I hadn't wanted to believe that my son was that stupid," Cregan seemed to tease as he stepped back for a moment to examine him again before adjusting his belts and cloak clasps and everything else to ensure that it was on perfectly as perfectly as it might be on a statue. "But I shall do his work for him: we Starks have married Royces and had children with them. Royces have married Arryns and had children with them. Therefore, Starks have Arryn blood in their veins and Arryns have Stark blood in theirs."  
  
"That means you, Jonnel, are part Andal from one of the oldest lines of Andals," his father shrugged. "It makes no difference, and it wouldn't if you called yourself entirely Andal, Wildling, Valyrian or of the First Men. Men are men and women are women, it doesn't matter if they get married before an alter or a wierwood tree, once they're stuffed beneath their blankets and bedded they're just as married as if they did it in front of the other."  
  
There was something oddly reassuring about that, not that Jonnel could tell why.  
  
But before he could say anything else, before he could think, his father stepped away from him, done, setting down the comb and making his way towards a mirror, leaving him with but the last item to be worn.  
  
The sword.  
  
To Jonnel's surprise his father had insisted on him having a sword belt around his waist for use as part of the wedding wear, which was certainly accepted by the Andals as theirs was a faith that venerated honor and courage in battle and allowed swords to be brought to their septs, even on days of worship or during a wedding. He had reasoned that it would make him look more proper, more noble, by giving a place to put his free hand rather than let it lie limp at his side whilst the other would hold his betrothed during the wedding ceremony, making him look all the more stoic and manly.  
  
But rather than let him use his own blade or one that might be familiar to him, his father had gone out and had one made by a master smith solely for the occasion, a weapon with a beautiful pommel of the best silverwork he had ever seen in his life, carefully shaped into the head of a direwolf and painstakingly etched by hand and acid to give its fur form to create a beautiful and perfect thing that would be covered almost entirely by his hand, below which was a grip of black leather and below which was a crossguard of fine steel marked with runes of the First Men...below which was nothing but enough metal to stop it wobbling in the sheath and give it the proper weight. It was a slab of iron that had not even been sharpened, for as his father had so wisely stated, what was the point in paying for a blade that no one would see during the wedding when he had plenty of perfectly fine swords at Winterfell and would inherit Ice when he died?  
  
All that meant that it was a showpiece, a mummer's prop intended to look as beautiful as it could and do nothing more, then be tossed aside when its part was done. It was not exactly the way he had expected his usually frugal father to have acted, but the more he thought about it, the more and more it seemed like powerful mummery, a display of Stark wealth and power for the south to feast upon even if it was an exaggeration of what was truly there beyond the Neck.  
  
He only hoped it wouldn't give his bride any wrong ideas and set her up for disappointment.  
  
Fastening it around his belt before his father could even give the command, Cregan turned to bring forth a mirror, allowing his son to see himself in its surface...and Jonnel froze, almost not even recognizing himself in its reflection. He was long faced and grey eyed and brown haired as most Starks were, mayhaps slighter of frame than his father was and his elder brother had been before he had died outside the walls of Sunspear, but in the eye of the polished silver he looked more a god than a man. The many layers of heavy cloth in the form of shirt and doublet and cloak had made him seem immensely built and with shoulders that would not shame a bull, his wrists thickened and arms bulked, whilst his cleanly shaven cheeks, chin and neck and neatly parted hair had made his face sharp and chiselled.  
  
"Seven hells," he laughed, looking towards his father with a wide smile. "I look like a different man."  
  
"And there are none in the Seven Kingdoms who will think you unsuited for a princess," Cregan said with a sly look in his eye as he took his cup once more. "I expect you to charm them as much as you do her. This is our chance to show them that the North is not a land of savages, but as dignified and grand as any of the southern realms. Stand tall, speak properly and with pride...and there is little that can go wrong."  
  
With one last swig, the Lord of Winterfell placed it upon the table. "Now come. We have a wedding to attend."  
  
And with a final glance towards the open shutters that revealed the city beyond, the sun shining down from high above as ships glided across the shimmering waters of the Blackwater Bay like lazing swans, he followed his father out.  
  
It was a fine day for a wedding.  
  


****  
 **The Sept of King's Landing...**

Daena resisted the temptation to whistle or hum as her sister helped her with the laces of her wedding dress for what she hoped would be the last time, the great gown of black and red broken in enough to be comfortable on her skin and comfortable on her shoulders as she walked or sat, toes tapping in their shoes with excitement for all that which was to come next. All around her, in the small room that was given over to her to make her preparations within the humble sept that her brother dreamed of replacing with a Great Sept of his own, every surface was covered with the items of her preparation, all bought for her by her uncle Viserys who knew this was sure to be the only royal wedding for years to come...and who had lavished her with the best silks and the best perfumes and the best jewelry, everything she might possibly desire and everything any woman might need to make themselves look all the more resplendent.  
  
Yet she paid no attention to any of it, for today was the day. The day she had awaited for far too long and which should have happened years before. The day that was surely the most important in any woman's life.  
  
Today was the day she would be married. Today was the day that she would no longer be a Targaryen, but a Stark.  
  
Today was the day she would be free of her brother Baelor, once and for all, for tonight she would be bedded and lose her maidenhood...and when that was done, any arguments that he might have made about protecting her chastity would be meaningless, for she would be a wife.  
  
And she would go north to Winterfell and never see him again.  
  
 _Oh, the thought makes me want this day to never end,_  she smiled widely.  _I'll be free! Free to do whatever I want whenever I want, and he won't be able to say anything about it!  
_  
Her fingers were trembling, her heart pounding, her smile unrelenting.  
  
After so much waiting and dreaming, she was going to be free.  
  
"Your hands are twitching," Elaena said with a teasing smirk. "Should I get a maester?"  
  
"I'm getting married!" was all she could say in answer, making her sister burnt into laughter, nearly singing the words. "I'm going to be married!"  
  
"You know, the bride isn't meant to be looking forward to the wedding  _this_ much," Elaena said...before covering her face with her hands to try and hide her laughter. "Gods! You're fidgeting so much I can't do the strings properly!"  
  
"I'm sorry, I just...I almost can't believe this is going to happen," Daena said to her little sister with a wide smile. "I'm getting married!  _Married!_ ".  
  
"I don't think I've ever seen you this excited," Elaena laughed, dropping the laces as she fell back onto her stool, scooting it across the floor with her feet to let her sit in front of her sister and her dress and the many, many strings that would need to be done there, just as there had been on the back and beneath. "But I guess a wedding is something to be happy about!"  
  
"Oh, I am much,  _much_ more than happy, little sister," Daena said, leaning back in her seat to let Elaena do her work, looking to the ceiling with wistful eyes and a smile. "I'm finally getting out of here...I dont' even know what to do first. Go hunting? Practice with my bow? Go riding?"  
  
"I thought that was left for the bedding?"  
  
"Then after that," Daena answered with a knowing look in her eye before continuing, dreaming of what might be. "Maybe I'll just ask him to get me a nice, big sack of flour for an archery target, decorated with flowers..."  
  
"Practicing to a kingslayer, sister?" Elaena giggled.  
  
"It's not my fault Baelor likes to wear sackcloth and flowers on his head," she answered with false innocence. "It's just a coincidence that what he is wearing is the same as an  _excellent_ range target. Afterall, I would never, ever dream of hurting our oh so  _noble_ king."  
  
"Well, maybe a  _little_ ," she admitted. "It's not like being shot in the back of the head with an bodkin would hurt him all that much."  
  
"He'd only die instantly," elaena said with a playing shrug and a smile before leaning forward again, silver hair waving with the movements of her fingers. "Not like thats much of a problem for you, though, is it?"  
  
"If the Seven really love me as much as he likes to say they do, they'll strike him down with lightning today," Daena said, looking to her sister with half-closed eyes, head resting against the cushions. "It would be the best wedding gift anyone could give me."  
  
"What about the book I gave you?" her sister asked, crossing her arms and pouting her lips with fake offense. "I thought that was the best wedding gift you could have wanted?"  
  
"Its definitely the best bedding gift," Daena said, the two sisters laughing. "Oh! Have you made sure to pass my message on to the smiths?"  
  
"I did, but they needed the measurements," Elaena started. "They can make the chain easy, but the cuffs need to be done to wrist size, else they'll chafe."  
  
 _Damn it. There goes my -  
_  
"Fortunately, you'd never guess who I found out in the city," her sister teased. "You'll never guess."  
  
Daena looked to her sister, trying to see if there was any clue of it on her cheeks. "...cousin Aegon on his way back from a brothel?"  
  
"Not even close!" she laughed. "Though you're not wrong, because he was there too! It was Cregan Stark!"  
  
"Oh! My soon to be good-father?" Daena asked before smiling. "I bet he was surprised to see you out there."  
  
"Not as surprised as I was to see him," her little sister said "He was heading down the street to get his son's shirts for the wedding...."  
  
Then she leaned in close to speak more quietly.  
  
"...and he told me how wide Jonnel's wrists were around," Elaena whispered. "The smiths got straight to work."  
  
"Then you mean -"  
  
"They'll be there," Elaena nodded. "Under the pillows, maybe? It was hard to get the servants ready to set them up, but they know Viserys said you to get anything you wanted for the wedding night."  
  
"At long last," Daena said, putting on the voice of a plotter and rubbing her hands together deviously as a mummer might, making her sister burst into laughter. "I will have what I was promised!"  
  
"Try not to kill him, though." Elaena said only for Daena to look at her with innocent eyes. "I know how you are, Daena. You can get carried away very, very easy."  
  
"As if he'll be complaining!" she countered. "I've been waiting for this since I flowered, and I haven't even been allowed  _near_ a man since then! If he dies, then he'll go to the gods the way every man wishes to die!"  
  
"But that would make you a widow, you know, and widows usually get sent back to their -"  
  
"I was only joking," Daena said. "But...best to be on the safe side. More romantic cuddling, less animalistic loving...such a shame."  
  
"Still, I've got some things to look forward to at least," she smiled, relaxing again, feeling the familiar tightness starting to spread around her chest and middle as the dress started to move into its final resting place. "And I can be grateful that I was sent here in normal clothes to get changed into the dress after I arrived after a nice, long journey by litter."  
  
"Lucky you. I had to walk here in this dress," Elaena said. "But not everyone can be so lucky to be getting married today, now can they?"  
  
"Nor can they be so lucky to be leaving all their worries behind," she said.  
  
"...and don't you worry," Daena said quietly, as quietly as she might so the guards outside her door wouldn't be able to hear. "I've got a plan to get you out."  
  
"How?" Elaena asked, violet eyes lighting up with the hope of escape. "I can't stay here on my own."  
  
"It's not the  _best_  plan," Daena admitted. "But it should work. You'll need a couple of things, but first, you're going to need to darken your hair."  
  
"That should be easy enough," Elaena said, before looking towards her sister with a curious eye. "I'm not sure how much that'll help, though."  
  
"Have any of my plans ever gone wrong, little sister?" Daena teased. "Just do what I say, and you'll be free like I am...and you're going to need a big cloak."  
  
"Daena, this is starting to sound like the opening to one of those old adventure stories -"  
  
"Just trust me," Daena smiled. "I'll get you out of the castle in broad dayl-"  
  
There was the hammering of a fist against the door, and Daena could see the fear in her little sister's eyes that they had been found out, the fear that they had spoken a little too loudly or too long and that she had just lost her one and only chance to escape. It was the fear that she would be forced to spend the rest of her life in the towers of the Red Keep or the vaults that their brother planned to build, trapped like a bird within a cage ever yearning to stretch its wings and take flight and escape the cruel isolation. It was the fear that she had just consigned herself to an existence at their mad brother's dictates, a life where she was not so much as allowed to eat anything but the blandest foods in the name of pious restraint and modesty. It was the fear of a life she would have to spend in utter solitude, never to feel the touch of a man's hand around hers or the feeling of his warm embrace or the kicks of a child growing inside of her or their, a life where she would be forced to grow old alone and die without ever being loved.  
  
It was the fear of a life wasted, and the mere sight of it in her sister's eyes was nearly enough to make her cry.  
  
And the feeling of her hands suddenly gripping the cloth of Daena's dress, tight like that of a babe terrified of being snatched from their mother, only made her feel it all the more as the door opened...  
  
...and revealed her cousin Aemon, his white armor polished to a shining perfection and his cloak bleached as pale as snow by lye and sunshine, his hand resting on the dragon's head pommel of Dark Sister, head unhelmeted and his steps practiced and rigored, as if on march until he closed the door behind him and relaxed with a sigh, just as Elaena did.  
  
"...have I interrupted something?" the Dragonknight asked, seeing the fading unease on her sister's face. "You look terrified."  
  
"No, no, its nothing," Elaena hurried, forcing a laugh as she leaned back on her stool. "I'm just surprised to see you! That's all!"  
  
"We didn't expect anyone to be coming to visit before the wedding," Daena said, speaking quickly to support her sister's words. "You know how Baelor is with his piety and his chastity and all that."  
  
"My father and Hand of the King sent me to tell you that your betrothed has arrived," Aemon said, leaning against the door...  
  
...before reaching to his neck and pulling out a rose petal that had somehow gotten lodged in his gorget. "...I knew there was something stuck in there."  
  
"...been inspecting the bedchamber, have you?"  
  
"I wish it were that comfortable," Aemon answered with a small smile. "My father has had all the knights of the Crownlands parading around the city streets since sunrise in full Targaryen colors, led by the Kingsguard. It was nice to have the smallfolk cheering our names, even if it is just because they're getting seven days of rest to celebrate the wedding, but some of them got the idea of throwing flower petals at us from the rooftops as we marched past."  
  
"It smelled nice and must have looked even better, but seven hells," the knight said with a laugh. "You never realize just how irritating those damned things can be when they start to find their way through the joints of your armor or get in your eyes."  
  
"My uncle really has spared no expense on this, hasn't he?" Daena smiled. "A massive dress, knights on parade, most of the lords of the realm in attendance...and we haven't even gotten to the wedding feast yet."  
  
"You're right, but it's not like there'll be another royal wedding in the reign of King Baelor," Aemon said with a wave of his arm. "I guess he just put the cost of all of the weddings together with the hope to make up for the lack of weddings with a single great one...as its not likely he'll have the chance to do one for your brother."  
  
"Speaking of the devil, where is my dear, beloved brother Baelor?" she asked with a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Has he decided to give me my wedding gift early and thrown himself into the dry moat to die? Castrated himself with a rusty butter knife, mayhaps?"  
  
"No, but I do think you will be happy to know what he has done," Aemon smiled with Kingsguard courtesy. "He has decided to give your uncle Viserys the privilege of conducting the ceremonies in his stead."  
  
Daena's eyes went wide, lighting up with a barely contained excitement.  
  
"Then you mean -"  
  
"Baelor won't be here at the wedding, the feast or the bedding," the Dragonknight nodded, knowing how much she loathed her brother. "He has decided to retire early for the night in order to contemplate the Faith."  
  
Only the fact that the dress could tear stopped the Targaryen princess from leaping from her seat and dancing with joy.  
  
"Today just gets better and better," she laughed, smiling wider than she had ever smiled and feeling happier than she had been in years. "Thank the Seven for Viserys!"  
  
"It would be best you not mention the gods, lest Baelor want you for himself," Aemon japed only to see his cousin frown instantly. "It was only a joke, cousin."  
  
"And not a funny one," Daena said. "I think I would rather hang myself with my own bedsheets than marry Baelor."  
  
"A good thing you won't be, then," Elaena laughed before looking towards the whitecloak. "Is Rhaena around? I could use the help."  
  
"She's with Baelor, alas," Aemon said, coming over and leaning against the table as he spoke. "He requested her to come to his chambers to help him study the sacred texts."  
  
"Oh!" Daena laughed. "Mayhaps we'll have a virgin birth in the family if she keeps coming to his chambers for "studies", though knowing the both of them they probably  _are_  studying."  
  
"Alls the pity," the younger princess said. "They'd be happy together, I think."  
  
"Who?" Daena asked. "Rhaena and Baelor? The marriage would be so chaste they'd make the Maiden look like a dockside whore."  
  
Though all the time of her captivity within the towers of the Red Keep had made it feel like their father had sired only two sons and two daughters, there was a third girl between Daena and Elaena, the middle daughter: Rhaena. She was a beauty that would have drawn the attentions of any man, a softer and more womanly beauty than Daena might have been, more ladylike, and the same went for the way she acted. Where Elaena took after Daena and had the same willfulness and the same desire to speak and act when they had been wronged, the same thing that might cause men to call them fierce, Rhaena could only be described as passive, even shy, ever dutiful and ever gentle, bookish even. All that had made her give Baelor no resistance, not even something as simple as how Daena had once stopped wearing the family colors of black and red and donned whites to show how she had maintained her innocence despite being married and despite having a desire to be bedded, placing the blame squarely on the king to try and shame him into carrying out his royal responsibilities.   
  
No, dutiful and obedient Rhaena never did anything of that sort, not in the beginning and not now. Instead, everything she did was done to please him and make him happy; though many thought otherwise, she once had a wide and vibrant wardrobe that had now all been replaced with whites just like Baelor's, embroidered with mothers and maidens and crones and stars and all the other figures and symbols of the Seven in golden thread. The same went for the way she acted, for she had grown all the quieter, never daring to try and speak to their brother about her confinement or try to speak to their uncle to have it loosened or to have some luxuries sent to her, no, she fasted as much as Baelor did - if not more - and had lost much of the plumpness that had always been on her body because of it. She spent her hours of the day in silent prayer and reflection and reading of the Seven Sided Star and all the other texts that the Andals had brought from across the Narrow Sea, even saying at one of the rare dinners they shared that she was thinking of becoming a septa the way Baelor had become a septon.   
  
All that meant that Rhaena was a woman who Daena was unsure either loved their confinement and wished it to never end or who loathed it but had given up the desire to fight, but more than anything else, she was a woman who was lost to her. Daena had no plans to try and get her out for ultimately Rhaena had no desires to leave   
  
"But they  _would_ be happy together," Elaena insisted with a slow nod. "Who could be better for Baelor than a chaste, pious woman, just like him? He doesn't want to break his septon's vows and she wouldn't want to break her septa ones, so they're a perfect match!"  
  
"Then she's welcome to have my share of him," Daena smiled and agreed. "In fact, she can have all of him for herself if she wants. I insist."  
  
"I'll make sure she knows of your generosity," was Aemon's answer. "Still...Viserys did have me come here to ask you a couple of questions as well."  
  
"If there is anything about me changing my mind about the wedding, the answer is no, never and certainly not," Daena said. "I'm not giving up my one chance to get out of this hole my brother seems happy to keep me in."  
  
"Well, that is one question over and done with already," Aemon smiled. "My father and your uncle was worried you might not be eager for the marriage because of how far you would be going from the capital, even though I told him you certainly were...even if for reasons that aren't entirely normal."  
  
"Believe me, I don't plan on missing this chance," Daena confirmed with a nod.  
  
"Either way, the second question is..." Aemon hesitated before sighing. "Believe me, I didn't say a word, but he wishes to know whether you would want a knight of the Kingsguard to accompany you northwards as your sworn sword, and suggests me."  
  
"You mean my uncle is concerned about whether or not I'll be safe in Winterfell?" Daena asked. "How could I not be? I'll have a big strapping husband, his father and so many others to protect me?"  
  
"That is no guarantee of your safety, however," Aemon warned. "You remember Dorne. That was beneath a banner of truce."  
  
"And that was the Dornish, Stranger take them all and damn them to the darkest pits of hell," Daena cursed bitterly, remembering the betrayal that cost the life of her  _true_ brother, the brave and honorable and noble Daeron who was everything that Baelor was not. "That was not the Northmen."  
  
"Besides," she said, relaxing once more now that the gods-forsaken realm was fading from her thoughts. "If the Starks of Winterfell do mistreat me - and I don't think they will - I'm sure it will make the rescue into a better song."  
  
"Oh, the great and dashing knights came north on mighty steeds to make right the Stark's misdeeds," Elaena hummed. "Riding through the thick white snow they charged the wolves with lances low."  
  
"See?" Daena smiled, gesturing towards her sister with an open hand. "And she isn't even a proper bard...but in all seriousness, cousin, I think I will be fine with them."  
  
"And lastly, he asked me to ask you if you wanted the bedding or not," he said at last. "Whilst the marriage isn't a marriage till its been consummated, it wouldn't be too much hassle not to have you carried -"  
  
"You must be joking," Daena said with a playing smile. "That's half the fun of getting married."  
  
"Alright, if you say so," Aemon laughed. "But with that done, I must ask if you are ready to go?"  
  
"She's just about ready," Elaena said, rubbing her fingers with a frown. "But I hope they can undo these faster than I put them on, else no one is getting bedded tonight. I've done so many knots my fingers hurt...all she needs now though is the veil."  
  
"A veil?  _Really?_ " Daena asked, incredulous. "Let me guess, Baelor insisted?"  
  
"Baelor insisted," Elaena said with a sigh. "Besides, Jonnel will lift it before the altar so the Mother and the Father can see your face, as is tradition."  
  
"Assuming the Northmen know enough about the Faith to know that," Daena said with crossed arms, glancing towards Aemon as her little sister carefully placed it atop and then put a small crown atop her brow, with seven gems of clear glass meant to mimic the Maiden's own...not that Daena could see them through the white cloth. "I'm going to need your help with this if I'm not going to trip over, Aemon. Strange shoes I've barely walked in, a dress longer than the Wall and now I have my eyes covered."  
  
"It'll be my pleasure," Aemon said, offering his hand to her and helping lift her from her seat...  
  
...and Elaena giggled.  
  
"What?" Daena asked, barely able to see her little sister. "What have you done?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing," the younger princess said. "You just look like a princess."  
  
"That might be because  _I am one_ ," Daena teased, Aemon careful to avoid laughing.  
  
"No, I mean like the princesses in the  _songs_ ," Elaena insisted before softening. "It suits you."  
  
"Thanks," Daena smiled, pulling her little sister into a hug and giving her a squeeze. "You've been a big help."  
  
"Oh, don't say that," Elaena said sadly. "You're going to make me cry."  
  
"There'll be plenty of time for that during the ceremony," Daena joked, making her sister laugh as she patted her back before letting her go, Elaena looking to her as though she might cry.  
  
"We best be going, my lady," Aemon said at last, returning to his proper and formal and guarded self. "We cannot keep them waiting much longer."  
  
"Then let's go. Lead the way."  
  
Through the thin cloth she watched as Aemon nodded, the white cloak guiding the bride in her blacks and reds towards the door, one foot at a time, his every step rigored and practiced and every step allowing her to get all the more comfortable with weight of the heavy fabrics of the great dress. She counted them in complete silence as Elaena followed from behind, cast in her shadow as the door to the sept's side room opened to reveal the temple's entrance, a place where the faithful could wait for the septon to bring them in for prayer with protection from the rain or the sun, far more humble than the Sept of Remembrance had been in Maegor's day and far more humble than the Great Sept that Baelor was planning to build.   
  
Yet it was a sept big enough for the wedding, certainly...and she could hear the crowds outside, waiting for the chance to see their princess and her bridegroom for themselves, merchants shouting as they tried to make the most profit they could from the wedding, selling reminders to the smallfolk as food vendors went amongst the crowds to feed them, all out of sight.   
  
But in sight was her uncle Viserys, who could yet be King Viserys the Second of His Name should Baelor die without fathering an heir...and there was a man who was a true Targaryen, a true dragon, one far more worthy of that title than her brother had ever been. He was a man in his forties with all the handsomeness of the men of their line, nose and cheekbones proud and hair freshly cut short for the wedding, stood straight and all as a king might even though it was the polished clasp of the Hand of the King he wore on his breast and not a royal crown upon his head.   
  
And she could not help but smile as he walked over to her, steps echoing off the high and vaulted ceiling.   
  
"You look beautiful, niece," Viserys smiled fondly as Aemon let go of her. "Your father would be proud if he had the chance to see you today."  
  
"Thank you, uncle," she answered, her words quiet and warm and happy. "Is everything ready? Can we go in?"  
  
"Oh, everything's been ready for sometime now, niece," her uncle explained. "The Starks have been waiting for you since before I sent Aemon inside."  
  
"But won't they be upset that I'm late?" Daena asked, uncertain and a little afraid, the unease of making a mistake in front of the entire realm beginning to creep up her spine. "I wouldn't want to seem rude."  
  
"The bride is never late," Viserys smiled, offering his arm to her. "She arrives at the exact moment she should and not a moment before."  
  
"Besides," he continued as her arm went in his, the Hand of the King escorting her towards the door. "A nice wait is fashionable and makes the anticipation of your arrival all the richer."  
  
Daena couldn't help but smile at that, just as she couldn't help but smile as Ser Aemon stepped in front of her as her armored guardian, pushing open the doors to the sept and letting the roar of the cheering commonfolk wash against her as she stepped forward into the sept on her uncle's arm, the crowds of waiting noblemen and women applauding as the bells above began to toll, walking towards the High Septon at the altars and towards her betrothed, who could only look towards her with stunned eyes...  
  
...and in that moment, all felt right in the world.  
  


****  
 **End of Part 3!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done! :D
> 
> Now, I'm normally a fan of big, fat super summaries that cover the part down in extreme detail, but its quite late now so I should probably be getting ready to hit the hay, but a brief summary: 
> 
> 1\. In the first section, we have Jonnel preparing for his part of the wedding...and the guilt that the heir to Winterfell feels for the loss of his first wife, Robyn Ryswell, blaming himself for her death in childbed and haunted by the loss of their children together, so much so that he would have tried to have the wedding cancelled were it not for Cregan talking him back into it...and showing well the bond between father and son whilst at it! Whilst their relationship is certainly nowhere near the level that Tywin and Tyrion's would be, it is definitely no Robb and Eddard either. There is a mutual respect between father and son, but little more than that, but such is enough to ensure that Jonnel is able to understand why his father acts the way he does, even if he doesn't like doing it himself, for whilst Jonnel is caring in general, Cregan places a great deal of weight on the family image; it is not simply enough to be powerful and noble, one needs to appear to be powerful and noble as well in order for said power to work to its greatest extent. 
> 
> That's one of the reasons why he places so much emphasis on the appearance of Jonnel for the wedding ceremony - he knows that all attention will be placed on Jonnel, that everything about him will be scrutinized to the extreme by the other lords of the realm, and so did his best to make him look flawless...whilst at the same time making him look impressive to the casual viewer :D 
> 
> 2\. And like the above, we have Daena getting ready in this section of the part...and this section covers quite a lot of things indeed, as it not only helps build up everyone's favorite pair of Targaryen princesses for the chapters to come, it also covers a lot of little things, and one of the most important and one that will be recurring in this particular tale is Daena's dislike for the Dornish, and oh, does she loathe Dorne for murdering her brother under a banner of truce, an act that some would consider to be worse even than breaking guest right. One of her biggest bones to pick with Baelor is over how he seemingly bent over backwards to please the Dornish in the peace after the war, denying any a chance to avenge their murdered king and the brother she cared for a great deal, and it is an attitude that many amongst the Seven Kingdoms share, even the Starks of Winterfell, as Rickon Stark, Jonnel's elder brother, was killed in the final battle of the war outside the walls of Sunspear, alongside many other Northmen. 
> 
> And of course, Viserys gives Aemon permission to offer her a few outs, such as having a sworn member of the Kingsguard to accompany her to Winterfell, but I don't think I need to say how she reacted to that idea! :p
> 
> This part was originally going to be quite a bit longer and cover the entirety of the wedding day, from the pair getting dressed to the wedding to the wedding feast and then end with the start of the day after, but the more I worked on the part as a whole the more I realized that things felt kinda clunky with the transition from one to the next and that the Daena section ended exactly how I wanted it to. So, in the end, I decided to spin that off into the start of part 4, which will thus deal with the aftermath of the ceremony and the wedding feast - a Cregan PoV that will have plenty interaction amongst the upper nobility! - and will include such things like wedding gifts...and the second section will be the morning after the bedding, with the start of Daena's journey to Winterfell.


	4. Chapter 4

****  
 **A few hours later, the Red Keep...**

Of all the things that the Lord of Winterfell had expected when the wedding ceremony was over and done and the time came to feast, the least of them all had been a seat of honor on the dais. It was a proud tradition in Westeros for honored guests to be able to sit there alongside their hosts, and yet it was a position that Cregan Stark had been denied. It was not barred from him as a slight by the Targaryens, for Viserys had given him his utmost apologies on the way to the castle from the septry, apologies that Cregan knew to be honest, but by the simple shapings of the great hall of the Red Keep itself, a hall that was one fourth as wide as it was long....and three times as tall. Its high and vaulted ceiling required great columns of polished red stone, columns that took up precious space on the ground floor, limiting the width of the tables from the door to the alcove where the twisted pile of steel and swords that was the Iron Throne at the furthest edge stood in all its dominant glory. Its steel shimmered red and gold in the warmth and light of the braziers that flanked its lower steps, the very same flames that licked the black bone of the great dragonskull that loomed above, Balerion's skull, but a good distance before it was the high table itself, a high table that was proof enough to him that Aegon and Maegor Targaryen were both warriors and kings first and architects and builders second, for with a throne behind and columns on their side, the dais table could only sit  _five_.  
  
The high table at Winterfell was in a hall  _half_  as big, yet it could sit more than twice that number and do so comfortably and with room to spare.  
  
 _And five seats is enough for groom and bride on the left, the little princess and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard on the right and the Hand of the King in the middle,_ Cregan noted.  _And that means that I have to sit down here...with all the other great lords.  
_  
"...and my brave uncle was quite the jouster in his day, so he hadn't much trouble to ride down the Dornishmen, but then he found out that the Dayne was nearby," the young Lord Lyonel Tyrell said eagerly, named for his father. "He was the Sword of the Morning, one of the best fighters in all of Westeros, but rather than die fighting he had fled into the sands with naught but a skin of water, his armor and with Dawn on his back to make sure no one could take the sword from him and keep the fight going."  
  
He resisted the temptation to sigh. The young Lyonel was like most Tyrells in that he was strong and strapping both, but he was proud too...and proudest of all of his namesake, his dear uncle, who had been born in time to sit through the Dance of the Dragons as a babe in arms and lived long enough to die in Dorne by a trap set on the belled rope he would use to summon a whore. Cregan knew there was little of any importance between the two events, but that didn't stop Lyonel Tyrell from repeating tales that were more fictitious than the ones the bards sang, tales of gallant battles against impossible odds and epic duels in the sands straight from the Age of Heroes.  
  
And if that were not enough...  
  
"It must have been glorious to have a chance to test one's mettle against so worthy a foe," the equally young Tommen Lannister said with honest interest, long golden locks wavering as he turned towards the Tyrell. "How did he fare?"  
  
...he had the added pleasure of the young Lord Tommen Lannister's presence on the table, whose father, Lord Jason, had died in the Dance of the Dragons and left behind another babe, one whose mother had needed to lead a regency for and whose mother had robbed her son of any chance to get glory of his own by crushing the Ironborn before he was weaned from her breast.  
  
 _They might think they are men, but they aren't,_  he thought in dead silence as he reached for his cup.  _They are boys, laughing with their swords and lordships as if they were playthings. One could put their years together and I would **still** be the elder.  
_  
"Is there something on your mind, Lord Stark?" asked Lord Donnel Arryn, perhaps the only one on the table more than thirty name days old other than Cregan himself, dark hair flecked with the wavering shades of a man starting to grey and a wrinkled brow above his aquiline nose and sharp cheeks. "You haven't said a thing since we sat down for the feast."  
  
"Indeed," the Lord Lannister smiled warmly. "I would have hoped to hear some tale of your deeds during the Dance as well."  
  
"Didn't your nurses tell you?" Lionel teased. "The Starks killed  _thousands_ of Lannister men during the war, chasing them into the Gods Eye and and let the weight of their armor drag them down to the bottom whilst their bows finished off any stragglers."  
  
"Mayhaps, but yesterday's enemies can be tomorrow's friends," Tommen countered. "We're all good Targaryen men anyhow, even if our fathers might've differed on which dragon was to be the one to sit the throne."  
  
"I suppose so," Lyonel seemed to agree, turning his attentions towards the quiet Stark. "Do you have any stories of the Dance, Stark? You were the only one of us here to have been a man grown at the time."  
  
"If you want stories of battle, then no," Cregan said flatly, meeting the Tyrell's chestnut eyes with his own of grey steel...and watching the Lord of the Reach seem to shrink back into his seat in answer. "I was denied that chance by the death of Aegon, though I killed plenty of men at King's Landing."  
  
"The Hour of the Wolf," Donnel nodded knowingly.  
  
"Exactly so," Cregan nodded, pride rising. "I did what had to be done. You cannot build a house on a weak foundation, else it'll collapse, and the same goes for peace and a courtful of traitors...so I did what had to be done. I cleaned the court out."  
  
"And trimmed a few necks in the process," Lyonel japed, raising his cup and taking a long sip.  
  
"They were oathbreakers," the Stark said, dismissing his remark. "They had to die, each and everyone of them. I would've done the same to the ones that had to go to the Wall, if they hadn't the right to take the black rather than face punishment for their treachery."  
  
"Even though they killed the king you were at war against?" Tommen asked, surprised. "Didn't they simply save you the effort?"  
  
"Larys the Clubfoot said the exact same thing," Cregan said, filling his cup with ale. "It was in the courtyard, right before I took his head and had his body set high upon a stage in Cobbler's Square for all of King's Landing to see."  
  
The young lords were finally quiet after that, for the first time after what seemed to be nearly an hour of unending talking...and for a moment, for just a heartbeat, Cregan thought that he might very well have won the peace and quiet he wanted, that he would be able to spend the feast without being bothered by boy-lords barely worth the title and that he would be able to eat the first course - at the very least - when it came in peace.  
  
He hadn't.  
  
"But what about Black Aly?" Lyonel asked. "She was just as much a traitor as the others, but you married her. Why did you marry her if she was guilty?"  
  
"The dowry," was Cregan's simple answer, the Stark reaching out as a serving girl brought a basket of freshly baked buns to the table, little things just big enough to fill a hand and still warm and soft from the ovens. "She was unmarried and at an older age than mine, marrying up from the Blackwoods to the Starks. Such a great match needed as great a dowry."  
  
"How much did they offer you, then?" Lyonel said, resting his head on his hand. "Forgive me, Lord Stark, but you don't seem the kind of man to let such things go cheaply."  
  
"They let me choose the dowry," Cregan said, dagger sliding into the bread's crusty surface. "They offered me gold and silver. I asked for grain."  
  
Lyonel and Tommen looked at him as though he spoke in High Valyrian.  
  
"Grain?" the Lannister asked with stunned amazement.  
  
"The  _entire_ granary of Raventree Hall was the bride price," he explained. "The bales of wheat, the bags of flour, the rounds of cheese, the smoked sausages,  _all of it,_  down to the very last  _crumb_."  
  
"But why?" Lyonel asked. "Why could grain be so valuable?"  
  
"I would have thought a Tyrell of all people would find it obvious," Cregan said, half a jape and half serious. "Winter was coming, and there were many mouths to feed at home, so many that men would rather risk death in the south than burden them with more. The food from Raventree Hall and all the others who had to pay their ransoms in food was enough to make up the difference and let those men go home and stock Winterfell for when the snows grew too heavy for hunting or farming, aye, and it was less likely to go "missing" on the way home than gold...gold that would have bought less food anyhow."  
  
"...but didn't winter come a few months later?" Lyonel asked. "Wouldn't that have meant that the Blackwoods starved...?"  
  
Cregan smiled in answer.  
  
"I always make sure traitors get their due and the Blackwoods were covering for the Velaryons," the Stark said, raising his cup and taking a long sip as the two young lords stared with surprised eyes. "They got what they deserved."  
  
"Seven hells," Lyonel mumbled. "I wish I never asked."  
  
"He isn't wrong," Donnel agreed. "Traitors and those who protect them should get what they deserve...and if winter came so soon after, then it seems the gods themselves made sure justice was done."  
  
"I suppose you're right about that at least," Tommen said before looking towards the empty seat at the end of the table, an empty chair where the stag banner of Storm's End was raised...and eager to change the topic, he asked the obvious question. "Where are the Baratheons, anyhow? The Stormlords have always been the Targaryen's closest allies, it wouldn't be like them to miss a wedding."  
  
"A raven brought word that Lord Ormund's horse broke a leg in the rain," Donnel explained, fingers drumming on the table as they awaited the arrival of the first courses. "He asked that the wedding go on rather than be delayed by his absence."  
  
"All the better," Lyonel japed. "I could use the extra elbow room on so small a table as thi-"  
  
Then, at last, the doors to the kitchens clattered open, a rush of hot air flowing through in their wake to flood the room with warmth and the smells of food, of meat and fish and vegetables and herbs and spices and baked bread...and through marched a procession of servants, an army of young men and women bringing with them a vast array of dishes tat would have made the temperate King Baelor turn up his nose at the gluttony of it all. At the head was a pair of great and strong men bringing forth one of the largest pigs he had ever seen, roasted for hours to absolute perfection, its cavities stuffed with chicken that were themselves stuffed with pheasant that was itself stuffed with duck, all drizzled in its juices and crowned with a helping of apple sauce...and behind were just as impressive sights. Draconic platters covered in the finest fillets of rainbow trout and their orange roe, trimmed with slices of the rare yellow fruit of the lemon tree. Bread loaves wide enough to serve as dinner plates were hollowed out and filled with stews of ale and steak and lamb, the orange medallions of thickly sliced carrots floating in the dark broth, and on and on and on it went, the servants bringing it to every table and making it possible for even an old nose such as his own to smell the delicious scents of all the spices and herbs that had been used, from mint to cinnamon to thyme to everything else that might be bought with the endless wealth of the Targaryen dragon kings and the endless wealth of their vast domains.  
  
It was the surest sign of a strong and healthy kingdom that had truly recovered from the damages and death and destruction of the Dance of the Dragons. It was the sight of power in its rawest form.  
  
It was the sight of a prospering kingdom.  
  
The great roast was lifted to the dais, placed upon the table in center position before the Hand of the King as its equally as grand siblings were taken to the center positions of all the other tables, even Cregan's own...but they were just the beginning, for behind them came dishes filled with stuffing and cauliflower drizzled in red and gold Stormlander cheeses and broccoli nestled against rashers of bacon cooked crispy and so much more. With it all came a flair in the music, the low simmering of the musicians growing in intensity to full song, and what songs they were: a Targaryen wedding called for songs of dragonriders and glory in battle as well as peaceful and prosperous rule at home, mixed with tales of the Freehold sang in perfect High Valyrian, yet with them came songs of their new kin from Winterfell, of the Kings in the North, of direwolves in the night and war against Ironborn and wildling alike, and by all the gods old and new, the clash of it all was something to behold: the songs played in turns with high harps and gentle flutes giving way to fast lutes and pounding drums, just as the singing of sweet voices that could reduce a woman to tears gave way to loud shouting that could be heard across a battlefield, all of it vying for the attentions of the men and women that filled the Red Keep and its courtyards...and all of it showed that the feast had well and truly began as much as the applause of grateful nobles did.  
  
"Though it seems there's more than enough room for this," the lion of Lannister roared with laughter as the roast was placed atop the table and as the music began to blare. "They've done good work on the roast!"  
  
"Aye, the roast," Lord Lyonel smiled as the curvy serving girl leaned over the table with plates in hand, the Tyrell reaching around and giving her rump a squeeze and making her cheeks redden. "Nothing quite like a pair of juicy hams roasted on a spit, eh?"  
  
The serving girl didn't even bother to dignify the Tyrell's flirt with an answer before she fled the table as fast as was dignified, blushing furiously as Lyonel looked to his companions and shrugged. Cregan nearly sighed at the display - there was all the problems of youth shown in a single instant, where all the lusts and passions of boyhood were coupled with the confidence and power of a man grown. It was the energy of youth, Cregan knew, desperate to be burnt through feasting or fighting or fucking...and it made men rash and abandon all forethoguht when its hunger was not sated.  
  
"You shouldn't do that in King's Landing," Donnel warned before Cregan could. "King Baelor closed all the brothels in the city as a crime against the Maiden, aye, and banned moontea as a crime against the Mother."  
  
"But if they were maidens then they wouldn't be whores," Lyonel countered with a smile. "Besides, what harm is it?"  
  
"Yours, for King Baelor takes his vows as a sept seriously," Donnel said simply. "If he finds out, then might be that your  _sword_  will meet a  **real** one."  
  
"I don't think he'd have the Lord of the Reach unmanned," Tommen reasoned as Lyonel paled in his chair. "There are still brothels in the city even if they go by the name of "leisure inns," because whilst I might not have travelled much outside the Westerlands, I doubt it is normal in the Crownlands for an inn to give you a room for an hour and have it come with its own serving girl."  
  
"True," Donnel nodded with understanding before he turned towards Lyonel once more, the Tyrell drinking his wine. "I would save such things for then, if I were you. Wouldn't want to risk the king making my family blade into the bindings for the Seven Sided Star of that new sept of his."  
  
The Tyrell sputtered, struggling to swallow his wine as he coughed. "Fine,  _koff_.  _Haff_ it your  _koff_ way."  
  
And as if noticing the settlement of the discussion of the table that was closest to his own, the Hand of the King rose from his seat as the last plates were delivered, the hall quieting in preparation for what was to come next.  
  
"Hear me, hear me," Viserys said loudly as he rose from his seat with a cheerful voice that matched his eager smile, looking every part the king he might very well become as his words carried to the end of the hall that swiftly fell quiet, awaiting his next words. "I have a few short words to say in honor of our beautiful and newly wed couple before the feast begins."  
  
"Firstly, however, I would like to thank you all for coming on so short a notice as this. It is not often that a man and a woman might find themselves introduced to one another at the start of a month and wed by the end of it," the Hand japed, a ripple of amusement going around the room before he turned serious once more. "Though nothing would have pleased our good King Aegon more than to have the chance to speak at his daughter's wedding, his unfortunate passing has left me as the eldest of all Targaryens...and in my years, I have seen many changes."  
  
"And few have changed more than my little niece, Daena, who is not nearly as little as she used to be," the Hand said with a smile as he turned towards the now blushing bride, the princess expecting some embarrassing tale or another. "Though your father had grown distant and cold even to me in the years that followed our mother's death, I still remember how he had smiled when he held you in his arms for the first time. You were little different than your sisters when you were so young, an innocent little girl who laughed at the nurse's stories and who loved to sew."  
  
Before the princess could thank him for his words, the Hand of the King continued.  
  
"But as you grew with every year that passed into the young woman I see before me now, you became brave and daring in a way that few ever are, even men, for you were not only willing to do things that so many other women dared not to do for the thought of how others might react, but would stand your ground in defiance of those who questioned your choices and thought them improper," the Hand said, a knowing look in his eye that matched the princess's own. "And in that, little niece, is proof that there is nothing about you that is not truly Targaryen. You have Rhaenys' kindness and curiosity and more than a little of Visenya's strength and courage...but perhaps more than anything else, you have your grandmother's fire, _Rhaenyra_ 's fire, too."  
  
"You are a  _true_ dragon, little niece," he said at last. "Nothing can make me happier than to see you today and have the chance to watch you soar."  
  
Daena was so taken aback by words that Cregan knew in a heartbeat that she simply didn't know what to say.  
  
"...thank you, uncle," she said at last, the very delay in answer showing how much it meant.  
  
Viserys nodded slowly in answer, then turned back towards the crowds to continue.  
  
"And though all across the realm will agree that both our beloved bride and her handsome groom will surely have a beautiful marriage, I can only come to believe that it is what this union represents that is the truly precious thing," the Targaryen said with cup in hand, looking out across the open crowds. "A mere thirty years ago, our lands were wrought with the greatest war that they have ever seen, yet within this hall today I see Stark sat alongside Lannister, Arryn alongside Tyrell, Velaryon alongside Targaryen. I see former enemies sat side by side, drinking and japing together as friends. I see the torn fabric of a realm at war mended. I see a realm at peace, where men can grow old and where women can live without ever seeing a son or a husband march into the distance, never to be seen again."  
  
Viserys raised his cup, and the whole hall raised theirs in answer.  
  
"A toast, to  **peace** in  ** _our_** time!"  
  
"To  ** _peace!_** " all the Lords of Westeros present answered with clinking cups, in agreement from wall to wall.  
  
And as Cregan drank, as all the lords drank, all the Stark could think of was that the king Westeros wanted was the man stood upon the dais, for there was a man who was everything that Baelor was not. He was wise beyond his years, but such wisdom would have been useless if he was not also hardworking and well meaning in equal measure, able to convince others of the righteousness of his arguments and his views by words alone...and unlike Baelor, he kept true to his faith without descending into zealotry that threatened to wound the peace they had worked so hard to create or humiliate the Targaryen line.  
  
 _And if the gods that Baelor loves so much are anywhere nearly as wise as he says they are, then Baelor will soon get the chance to meet them first hand,_ Cregan thought.  _Once he is dead and gone, Viserys will have the throne...and the Seven Kingdoms will have a second Jaehaerys and a king worth the title._  
  
"But I cannot speak only of the beauty of what this marriage means when I must also speak to the beauty of the occasion, and that occasion is the wedding of my little niece," the Targaryen continued, turning his cup towards the bride that was his niece, the princess looking happier than Cregan had ever seen her before he looked back towards the lords that filled the hall. "It has been a long time coming. Many years ago when my elder brother, our good king Aegon, the Third of His Name, fell ill with the sickness that would claim his life, he made me swear a solemn vow."  
  
"It was a promise that I would do everything in my power to ensure that the realm was peaceful and prosperous in his absence," the Hand of the King spoke with sincere and honest words. "But more than anything else, he made me swear to look after the family he loved with all his heart, even if his time in the Dance had robbed him of his comfort in showing how much he loved his sons and his daughters."  
  
"It was a promise that I made again to his son, our King Daeron - our Young Dragon himself - before he left for Dorne for the second time," the Targaryen continued. "Before he left to tragically die, murdered by Dornish treachery, my brave nephew asked only that I would look after his sisters should he fall, that I would work to ensure that they had the happiness that they deserved in life. That I would find them husbands that they could come to love and who could provide for them all that they might desire, that I would help them in any way I could and that I would never once force them to do something that they did not wish to do."  
  
And then the Hand turned back towards Daena, his voice softening like that of a loving father.  
  
"Though the houses Stark and Targaryen may not have always seen eye to eye, I can say with honesty that I know that you will be safe in their care, little niece, for though your journeys will take you far from King's Landing and from your kin, I know the Starks of Winterfell to be honorable and true. Jonnel may be no sworn knight nor dashing prince, but in his breast beats the sure heart of a man good and honest."  
  
"Thank you," Jonnel said with gratitude, accepting his blessings with a smile.  
  
"And I can say with honest words, Daena, my sweet little niece, that your father and your brother would be as proud and as happy as I to see you here today," Viserys smiled at last...  
  
...and for the briefest of moments, Cregan thought the Targaryen princess was crying as her uncle's hand rested on her shoulder for but a heartbeat before going back to his side.  
  
"Now that I am sure you have all began to tire of hearing my voice, it is time to continue!" the Hand japed as the crowd laughed. "A wedding without a feast is like a horse without legs, so let there be less talking and more feasting!"  
  
The lords of the hall clapped in gratitude, thanking the Targaryens for their hospitality, thanking the young couple for allowing them to be within their hall, thanking the Seven for the chance to be there at all, all welcomed by the Hand of the King before he fell back into his seat at the head of the hall, and with a tip of his head towards the musicians that filled the galleys on either side of the main hall, the castle roared back to life.  
  
"Seven, I love feasts," Lyonel said eagerly, reaching out for a large silver spoon and sinking it into the greatest of the sides presented - a gratin, a food that came from the Reach and was as decadent as any other of their foods, made from layers of parsnip, some mashed and some sliced, mixed with onion and melted cheese that matched that which made the crust, dotted with the green of freshly diced spring onion. Driving all the way to the bottom of the pot in one go, the spoon struck clay before he brought it up again, a plume of steam rising from the rest as he brought it over to his plate and tipped the contents onto its surface and went back for another helping.  
  
"Be sure to leave some for the rest of us," Tommen laughed, yet whose green eyes carried more than a hint of seriousness. "We're as much allowed to have some of that as you."  
  
"Oh, please," Lyonel countered. "It was probably made with cheese from the Reach anyway. I'm just taking my fair share, and as lord of the greatest of the realms -"  
  
"The Reach is the vastest of the southern realms, so no wonder its lord wants to be the  _vastest_ of the lords," Tommen countered with Lannister wit. "Keep eating, Lord Tyrell, and you will be."  
  
Lord Lyonel gave the Lannister a look that made it seem as though a war was going to start over the dining table, and Cregan sighed. He was hungry and he had enough of this already...and a wolf with an empty stomach was a wolf with no patience.  
  
"Quit your bickering, the both of you," the Stark commanded, fatherly iron cutting through his voice and forcing the lords attentions to snap towards him, like deer gazing towards their huntsman. "You are lords of the Seven Kingdoms at the wedding of your King's sister, in view of the  **entire** realm.  _Act it._ "  
  
"...besides," Lord Lyonel said, voice softening as he scooped some out onto the Lannister's plate, as great a share as the one he had taken for himself. "I'm sure there is more in the kitchens."  
  
"Considering how small this castle is, I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't," Tommen japed with a smile, the two settling down again as they began to share rather than fight. "I feel sorry for all those lords who have to eat in the courtyard."  
  
"It could be worse," the Stark said, taking his own share before passing it onto the Arryn and looking up to the dais only to see Viserys looking down, giving the Stark a thankful nod for keeping order in his hall. "It could be raining."  
  
The young lordlings laughed in answer and Lyonel smiled. "And they say Starks have no humor."  
  
"Only when hungry," Cregan said, reaching out to take carving fork with one hand and blade with the other, cutting himself a thick cut of pork from the swollen pig before him. "You should never argue with a hungry wolf."  
  
"Or a hungry lion," Tommen agreed.  
  
"Or a hungry falcon," the Arryn added.  
  
"Or a..." Lyonel started as all the others did, only to hesitate and draw the attention of the others to him.  
  
Cregan smiled before Lyonel laughed in realization as the young lords finally began to turn their attentions to their meal rather than to conversation, freeing Cregan to finally do the same without fear of interruption. With the tables throughout the entire hall covered with the first courses, the same went for the rest of the room, hungry guests focusing on their food...yet now that he was free of the burden of conversation, the Lord of Winterfell was free to keep his attentions divided between his table and the dais, watching his son from below as Jonnel knew he would. With subtle movements of his fingers and the flicks of his wrist, gestures that no one would notice unless they knew they were being done in the first place, he could guide his heir one plate at a time, the father able to give the son advice from a dozen feet away and without a single word being said. He watched as Jonnel followed his vague instructions to the best of his ability, watching his attentions move to the foods that Cregan himself selected, and Cregan was careful to avoid any food that could risk dirtying his fine clothes or which might be awkward to eat, drinking only little, all things that Jonnel mimicked and all things that kept him from doing anything that could embarrass him or Winterfell in front of the Targaryens and the rest of the realm. He brought him away from the ham and the hot juices that could have dripped over his new wife's lap as he brought it over to his plate, from the carrots and peapods that had been fried in bacon grease, and guided him towards those foods that were stable and less likely to drip, skipping the first course almost entirely till the second came forth with pastries that he let his son have a free hand at picking.  
  
Then the second course gave way to the third, a combination of fish dishes and bowls of stew...and Cregan naturally gestured to the former, watching his son take a plate and talk with Daena for a time as servants came to take the previous course and take it to the streets of King's Landing where the peasantry were eagerly enjoying their own feast from the things that those within the castle walls could not eat.  
 _  
And when it is a royal wedding with dozens of courses, that is more than a little,_ Cregan thought wordlessly, dipping bread into the beefy broth.  _In a feast as great as this, few ever eat more than a half a dozen bites of anything brought before them._  
  
"Gods, she really is a sight, isn't she?" Tommen asked, looking towards the dais with his elbow on the table. "She has Valyrian eyes, but Seven, I have never seen anyone with hair like that before."  
  
Instantly, Lyonel Tyrell burst into laughter. "I don't know if you realized, Lord Lannister, but you may be a little too late to be falling in love with her, seeing how you are at her wedding feast."  
  
"Oh, not her," Tommen said. "The younger princess, Elaena."  
  
"She's too young for you, Tommen," Donnel teased. "You'll be nearly as old as I am by the time she has finished growing into her beauty."  
  
"I will have you know that I have a beautiful enough woman waiting for me at Castamere," Tommen said with a smile, tipping his head towards the Lord of the Eyrie. "I've just never seen a woman with golden hair before - not  _sunshine blonde_  like we Lannisters and Westermen, but  _gold_ like the  _metal_."  
  
"She looks nearly as blonde as you," Donnel said, seeming to shrug his shoulders ever so slightly beneath his blue wear. "Her silver is the same as all the other Targaryens, true, but the gold...it looks close, but I don't think it is true gold _._  More like it just like her sister's, but with the light making it seem it."  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure, ser," Tommen reasoned. "I am a Lannister, and a Lannister knows gold when they see it. I bet you three gold dragons that her hair is the same color as the coin is."  
  
"I'll take that bet and raise it to seven," Donnel replied. "The Gods love weddings nearly as much as they love sevens."  
  
"Lyonel?"  
  
The Tyrell looked towards the dais for a moment before reaching into his doublet with two fingers, pulling out a gold dragon from a small pocket, before raising the coin carefully between thumb and forefinger to compare the shades with a narrowed brow.  
  
"Seven hells, he's right as well," Lyonel said with amazement. "That streak of gold in her hair isn't just goldish, it is the same color  _as_ gold."  
  
"You can pay me at the end of the feast," Tommen smiled, raising his wine cup. "I wouldn't want anyone thinking the honorable Arryns are gambling on the color of a young girl's hair."  
  
Donnel laughed, then. "Aye, fine..."  
  
"...but I do wonder," the Arryn said, looking to the dais and the Targaryen women, confused. "She and Daena have gold in their hair, but how did they get it?"  
  
"The same way I did, most like," the Lord of Casterly Rock said as he placed his cup down again. "They were born with it."  
  
"But  _how?_ " Donnel asked. "A child should look like their mother and father, but the Targaryens wed brother to sister and have done for generations."  
  
"Your point?" the Reachman asked.  
  
"So if both the mother and the father look like each other and both of them have silver hair and violet eyes, where does the gold come from?" Donnel asked. "They should both have just silver hair like Aegon and Daenaera did, but for some reason Daena and Baelor have gold mixed in, like Daeron did before he died, whilst Elaena has a streak of just gold on the one side...what do you think?"  
  
"I think you should drink less wine," Cregan said flatly, the young lords laughing. "Besides, why not ask the young princess yourself? She's noticed your gaze, after all."  
  
Donnel looked towards the dais with the edge of his vision...and saw a blushing Elaena, the young Targaryen princess dressed all in black and embarrassed by it all, but not nearly as so as Donnel was when the others laughed and Cregan shoo k his head and went back to his meal.  
  
Then he realized that he hadn't checked on Jonnel for the whole time that they had been talking.  
  
 _Surely that was not long enough for an error to be made, or at the very least not a major one,_  the Lord of Winterfell reasoned.  _Even still...  
_  
He looked to the dais, hoping to see some assurance that nothing had gone wrong, to make sure that the Starks of Winterfell had not been disgraced before the entire realm by a small mistake made all the worse by taking place at so important an event, and saw that his son had finished the fish he had taken - being unable to sample anything of the later courses was an issue, but perhaps the most minor one possible and so Cregan was not bothered by it - but had started probing the little slice of lemon that had gone with it.  
  
And Cregan remembered in an instant that his Jonnel had never so much as seen a lemon before. They were not a fruit often found in the North, for they could only be grown in the lands of Dorne and the Reach and would perish before they could reach Winterfell.  
  
"No, boy, don't try it," Cregan whispered. "Notice that it smells sour and leave it at -"  
  
He watched as Daena looked to her new husband with curious eyes, wondering why he was looking at the slice of fruit, unsure of whether or not it was part of the meal or just a mere garnish, and though he could not hear her from down the hall, not with the music and not with the clatter of knives and cups and plates and wine casks and talking, he could read her words well enough and see the teasing look in her eye.  
  
And to Cregan's horror, he could only watch as his son bit down on the thick cut of lemon...and saw Jonnel Stark, heir to Winterfell, recoil at the incredible sourness of it all, his Targaryen bride bursting with laughter.  
  
"Oh, for gods sake," Cregan sighed, covering his eyes for a moment with shame before moving his hand to make it seem as though he was simply wiping sweat from his brow.  
  
But thankfully, thankfully, there was little else of such event from that point on, for the the third course was followed by a fourth that was followed by a fifth that was followed by a sixth, all as grand as the first and all paving the way towards the next in the march towards forty nine courses, seven groups of seven, a holy number of the Andal faith that Cregan was sure Viserys had chosen solely to sate the king's immense zealotry. It felt as though another course was being placed before him with every moment that passed, the hours melting away in a blur of meat and fish and stew and vegetables and pies and pastry, as hard to endure as a slog through the snowy blizzards of the North in winter...yet Cregan was nothing if not enduring. He held fast, sampling every dish once or twice, pushing forward with the determination of a man who had fasted all morning and day in preparation, refusing to let anyone - no matter if they were Arryn, Lannister or Tyrell - think that he was ungrateful for the hospitality that his new Targaryen kin had given him. He drank sparingly, careful to avoid getting drunk and risk making a mockery of himself at the table, sipping only ale and never the wine, needing not to warn his son of the risks of too much drink; no, the sight of Lord Throne slumping over face first into his winecup before being taken back to his chambers by guardsmen was example enough.  
  
 _Though my new good daughter has a taste for wine, or so it seems,_  he thought to himself with a glance towards the dais...where Daena was only mayhaps a little tipsy and where her sister was a giggling and energized mess at the table.  _I would have thought it to be the other way around..._  
  
As if to break him from his thoughts, the next course arrived at the table...and it was something that he had heard about and seen prepared years before in the final hours of the Dance of the Dragons when he was his Jonnel's age, but never had the chance to sample. Valyrian firepudding. It was something of a recurring dish on the Targaryen table, a recipe that dated back to the days of the old Freehold and something that the highest and most powerful of the dragonlords would have prepared it little differently than the wives of even the lowest of freeborn men, for the pudding had been in the world longer than Andals had been in Westeros. The recipe was quite simple - shredded suet, flour, two eggs and a copious amount of barley wine and dark beer, binding together a fistful of sultanas and raisins and currents, mayhaps with a few spices if the maker could afford them as many Valyrians could when the Freehold stood astride Essos as a giant. He had little experience with Valyrian food - few living did, seeing how the Freehold had been gone for centuries and information came rarely from within the Black Walls of Volantis - but he had heard a few stories about it in his time at King's Landing before; from what the cooks and servants had said, the firepudding was something special in the Freehold in that it was not only a traditional dessert, but a reason for their massive successes in battle, as it was said that the pudding was taken on campaign by all the soldiery of the Freehold from dragonlord to footman thanks to being as easy to take from one place to the next as it was tasty...and, supposedly, because the pudding could last from the start of the Valyrian fourteen month year to the end of it  _without_ spoiling, instead aging the way a good ale might.  
  
Cregan was skeptical of such things and thought it more like some old cook's tale to impress one another.  
  
But there was one thing more - they didn't call it a firepudding for nothing.  
  
"Would you like your pudding flamed, my lords?" the young and finely dressed serving man - more a boy than a man, Cregan noted - asked with a very well practiced voice.  
  
"Flamed?" Lyonel asked, confused.  
  
"It's an old Valyrian trick," Tommen said. "My namesake, King Tommen the Lion King, got to have one at Volantis before he disappeared."  
  
"I don't see why not," Donnel said, Cregan nodding in agreement...  
  
...and as the lords gave their assent, the serving boy brought forth a small wooden wick, lighting it off of the table's candles before placing the lit flame close to the pudding surface and then - a sudden flash of light and a rush of warmth as the pudding set ablaze, burning with blue flame.  
  
"I see why they call it a firepudding," Donnel japed as the servant left for the next table. "They were never creative with naming things, were they? Dragonstone, Dragonlords, dragonroads, dragonglass..."  
  
"...and now dragonpudding, it seems," Lyonel said, watching the great round heap that was the firepudding burn. "...is it supposed to look like that?"  
  
"Aye," Tommen said, intrigued. "The Lion King said it was helmet shaped and burnt blue without smoke."  
  
"...then how are we supposed to eat it?" the Tyrell asked, confused. "Won't our mouths burn?"  
  
"I believe that is intended," Cregan said, reaching for the cutting knife.  
  
"No," Tommen said after a moment's thought, staying the Stark's hand. "I think you're meant to wait for it to -"  
  
And as if on command, the flames burnt out, leaving a slowly steaming pudding beneath. The Stark glanced towards the Lannister, who leaned back, allowing the Lord of Winterfell to cut it into eighths, two slices for each of the lords and two slices that were big enough to fill a man's hand. One by one the lords reached out and impaled them with their own knives, leaving the Stark to last, and as if by silent agreement, they all took a bite at nearly the same time, the Stark expecting another meal to force himself through...  
  
...only for it to be surprisingly  _good_. It was perhaps not perfectly according to his taste and certainly more gooey than he had thought it might be, but the longer it sat in his mouth, the more and more of the flavor of fruit and alcohol seemed to melt together and the more delicious it became, even after swallowing.  
  
"Oh gods, it's  _bitter_ ," Lyonel recoiled, quickly reaching for his wine. "No wonder King Tommen sailed into the Smoking Sea. He couldn't bare to live with himself after eating  _that_."  
  
"Very funny," Tommen glared. "I think it's nice. Mayhaps a little soft -"  
  
"I know you live in a mountain, Lord Lannister, but I didn't know you ate rocks," Lyonel countered with a laugh. "What about you, Donnel?"  
  
"I've had worse, much worse," the Lord of the Eyrie shrugged. "A little soft, as Tommen says, but there's little wrong with that, and aye, it'll warm you up at night to be sure."  
  
"So would being set on fire," Lyonel answered...  
  
...before looking to the Lord of Winterfell and not even bothering to ask his opinion, Cregan eagerly taking another bite. Of all the forty nine courses that had came and went from his table, there were few that he enjoyed more than the last, a fine way to finish an evening of feasting and drinking both, but there was more to a feast than just eating.  
  
And as the clatter of knives and forks began to settle down once more, the music settled as Viserys rose from his seat once more.  
  
"I hope that all of you enjoyed the hard work of the castle's cooks, for they have been working since dawn to make sure that everything was ready for the feast," he started. "There is yet more to come, for I have spent every hour from the betrothal working to create a wedding feast truly worthy of a royal wedding, and I promise you, what comes next will be as grand as what came before. Dancing, with music played by some of the finest hands on either side of the Narrow Sea, and entertainment by conjurers and mummers and the Leaping Ladies of Lys and so many more."  
  
"But before the night can go on," the Hand of the King said before turning towards the newly wed couple on the dais. "There must be a time for all the gifts that we have brought our beloved princess and her noble groom to be given and received with our best wishes..."  
  
And with the raise of a cup in a toast that everyone shared in, he smiled. "...and there are a great many gifts indeed!"  
  
"But before everyone else brings forth their offerings for the lovely couple, I would first like to deliver my own," Viserys said warmly, with all the courtesy of the king he had replaced. "It is something that my good niece has always dreamed of owning, and something that was never easy to acquire."  
  
With the snap of a pair of fingers, the Hand of the King sent forward a pair of servants of a long box of the darkest ebonwood, carefully engraved with swirling draconic motifs that met in the three heads upon its lock, carefully bringing it up to the dais to place before the intrigued maiden.  
  
"What is it?" she asked, looking towards her uncle with curious eyes.  
  
"You were never the most ladylike woman, little niece, but I would not shame you by bringing you a gift you would not want," Viserys smiled, reaching into a pocket to give her a key. "It wasn't easy to find."  
  
Intrigued, Cregan leaned forward, wanting to see what his new good-brother had bought for her, watching as she took the key from his hand and carefully slid it into the hole in the middle dragon's maw, hearing the soft click as it slid into place and watching as she leaned down and raised the lid...  
  
"...oh, fuck off," she swore thoughtlessly in her excitement, hand going to her mouth as she leaned forward with reddening cheeks and a burst of laughter that the rest of the court echoed as she smiled the widest Cregan had ever seen her smile. "I can't believe you got it."  
  
"What is it?" Jonnel asked, leaning forward with a curious look in his eye Viserys simply smiled and raised a cup in his niece's honor.  
  
Smiling and having overcome her joy, Daena raised the lid again...  
  
...and her husband's eyes went wide as she let it fall back and reached into the cushioned interior to raise a bow of blackest dragonbone, its smooth surface rippling with clouds of smoke grey and carved with the same draconic features as the box and a pair of dragon heads for string grooves, clutching a string of deer sinew in their jaws. A handful of rubies gleamed in the light of the torches, placed above and below the handle that was textured to match dragonscale, mayhaps even sheathed in it, all adding to its incredible beauty.  
  
"You can't find a single man in all the Seven Kingdoms who has any skill working dragonbone, so I had to send for a master from Myr to do the work," Viserys said at last, the court hushed but for whisperings of its beauty, hanging on his every word. "It's carved from one of Vhagar's own wing spurs, a single long piece that took many weeks of continuous work to hew into shape."  
  
"Thank you," Daena said with true thanks and with tears in her eyes, giving her good uncle a hug he smiled to receive. "For this, and for being like a father to me."  
  
For a moment, there was a happy silence.  
  
"Well, and here I was thinking I had the nicest gift," Prince Aegon japed with a false sigh, the court roaring with laughter as the king and his niece grinned and fell back into their seats, Daena smiling to her husband as the musicians began to play once more and as a minstrel in the black and reds of his royal patrons stepped forward with list in hand, speaking with a clear and powerful voice that could be heard from one end of the room to the other...  
  
...and Cregan smiled, raising his cup to his lips as he looked down, watching not only for the reactions of his son and his new bride, but for the response of the crowds and the other lords and the Targaryen family themselves. This would be a show, a show not just of who would have the pride of bringing the best gift and who would have the embarrassment of the worst,  
 _  
This will be quite the show. All the great lords of the realm are here, and all will try and show their power._  
  
"Lord Tommen Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord of the Westerlands, brings a gift for Jonnel of the house Stark, the bridegroom!"  
  
"Indeed I do," the Lannister said as he rose from his seat down the table, long hair of sunshine gold wavering with his movements. "Though the smiths of the west are most famed for their work in gold, let it never be said that they have no talent for working in steel."  
  
The Lannister snapped his fingers, the noise echoing off the cavernous ceiling. A few moments later, a pair of strongly built Westermen entered the room from one of the side entrances, pushing along a wheeled platform, its cargo covered by a thick grey cloth to mask the figure beneath, giving but the faintest outline even after it came to a halt before the dais. Reaching for the edge with a certain hand, Tommen took hold of the cloth and pulled the cloth aside with a single, swift movement that revealed that which lay within...  
  
...and that was the finest suit of plate armor that Cregan had ever seen in his life, greater even than the pearl white harnesses of the sworn knights of the Kingsguard. With a move of his foot, Tommen turned the pedestal away from the dais to face the crowds so that all might see its splendor, and men whispered in awe and envy as the Lord of Winterfell looked it over from head to heel: every part of it was crafted from strong grey steel, polished to a shining and utterly unmarred perfection, and every part of it carried a hint of a wolf's form. The flutings that reinforced the armor and would deflect the slashing bows of an attacker's blade had been placed with nothing but the utmost care, and nowhere else was this seen more than on the breastplate where they were angled, placed so precisely that their protrusion made a shape that emerged from the flat of the metal ever so slightly, an image that had been refined with painstaking etching by hand and acid both to create an image of a wolf so realistic it looked as though it would leap out of the metal, alive and deadly.  
  
A pair of black eyes gleamed from beneath the brows that had been made by the armor's shape, the shape that gave the image the depth it needed, twin onyxes that caught the light and shone like stars in the contrast of the metal, but these gems were smaller than those that decorated the helm, a hounskull that truly lived up to the name with a wolf's muzzle and cheeks. Even the very gauntlets and sabatons had been shaped in such a style, but for all its ornate appearance, Cregan knew in an instant that this armor was as beautiful as it was protective, sure to keep Jonnel as safe from harm from the enemies of Winterfell as it would draw the attention of all who witnessed him in the melee or on the tourney field.  
  
"This is incredible work," Jonnel said, smiling widely. "Thank you."  
  
"Indeed!" Viserys agreed. "A suit of armor such as that must have cost a fortune."  
  
"It did," Tommen smiled. "But price is little obstacle to a Lannister, and even less when it comes to finding a gift worthy enough for a royal wedding. Even still, it took our finest smiths weeks to craft, and they would have been at a loss where to begin were it not for our Hand sending your measurements alongside those of your bride."  
  
"How could you have an entire set of armor made so quickly?" the heir to Winterfell asked, amazed.  
  
"At Lannisport, the goldsmiths stand together as brothers, they share knowledge, tools and workshops, knowing that all of them will benefit from the reputation they build," the Lannister said with a smile. "It is near enough the same for our armourers. If it takes one man six months to make a full harness, then surely twelve men can have it done in half a month by each working on a different part at a time?"  
  
"Regardless, however, one cannot put a price on quality. I hope it serves you well in the years to come, and mayhaps the chance to see you riding in the lists in it."  
  
Jonnel laughed and thanked him again in answer, but Cregan was less certain. It was a fine gift that any man would be eager to receive, innocent and warmly welcomed...  
  
...but it could very well have been just as much of a threat. The mail that had been the trusted protector of knights and warriors across the realm for centuries was under siege, assaulted since the first days of the Dance of the Dragons by the latest invention of the blacksmiths and artificers of Myr: plate harnesses. They were far better at protecting a man than even the best hauberk, axes and arrows alike rolling off their steel and leaving the wielder unharmed whilst maces leave only dents and bruises, yet they carried with them a princely price that came from the immense rarity of the skills of forging needed to create such pieces and the simple fact that they could only protect the wearer if made  _right_. A single error in the tempering of the steel would make the metal too hard, brittle, and it would shatter like glass on impact the same way a diamond might...but if it was made right, then the wearer could wade through a wall of spears, hacking and slashing without harm.  
  
It was there that he saw the threat - if the Lannisters could produce their own plate armor, as had once been the reserve of the master smiths of Myr who jealously guarded their knowledge and the great armourers of the Street of Steel who were few in number and only beginning to learn the techniques, then it was only a matter of time before their lords and knights were so equipped. And where better was there a place to show such a thing than at a wedding with Starks, who had fought against them and massacred them at the Lakeshore just thirty years before in the bloodiest battle in a war of bloody battles?  
  
Cregan was aware that it could very well have been what it appeared to be, a gift given at a wedding with no real intent behind it, but the lands and peoples of the North had not been kept safe under his rule by half-measures and carelessness, but by careful consideration and  _patience_...and plenty of it. The lands of the North were vast, mayhaps even greater than all of the southern realms put together, but so much of it was empty land with little in the name of people or shelter, empty and desolate and as unsuitable for farming work as it was for marching an army through. It was a land of snow where the long winters and cold nights taught any man to be patient, yet it was also a land with enemies a plenty: across the southern shores were the ancestral foe, the Ironborn, who kept their ambitions trained forever northwards on the woods of Cape Kraken and further afield at Sea Dragon Point, their timbers well suited for ship construction. Elsewhere, the wildlings lurked in the depths of the Haunted Forest and lived out their days in savagery and bloodshed and carnage, with some on the ice rivers even eating the flesh of men to survive the bitter cold, all separated from the peaceful lands and peoples of his realm by nothing more than a wall of ice and a thin wall of black cloaks that grew thinner with every generation. And as if that were not enough, there was so much that he could not see even as the Lord of the North thanks to its great size, and who knew what treacheries might be plotted beyond the walls and attentions of Winterfell? Who could say which so called vassal might have treachery lurking in their breast where only loyalty should lie?  
  
The North was so vast that it could not be defended by idleness and carelessness, no, for such things would give their enemies the time they needed to muster their full strength and make all their preparations. It had to be guarded with a watchful eye, patient and yet attentive, ever aware of the moves that those around them might make so that the North might have the chance to make ready its own defenses, for even the youngest son or daughter of Winterfell knew what would come if their enemies were allowed to strike when the North was unprepared. The lichyard and the crypts made sure of that.  
  
And so he raised his cup and took his sip as any lord might...  
  
....and like a direwolf in the midst of the deep and dark woods, he remained ever vigilant of all the things around him, great or small.  
  
"Indeed, this is a most wondrous gift, Lord Lannister," he said as he placed his cup down again, meeting Tommen with all diplomatic grace and nothing more nor less. "Winterfell thanks you."  
  
"The honor is mine, Lord Stark," the Lannister answered with a smile that reached his cheeks and a warm voice. "It is not every day that we have the chance to show the affection of the Westerlands for our noble dragon kings. We are grateful merely for the opportunity to show how much we favor them for years of peace and prosperity and for their aid in quashing the Red Kraken."  
  
There was a rumble of approval from around the hall in answer to that, cheers of Targaryen glory and Ironborn japes alike, everyone remembering the bloody years of Dalton Greyjoy and his marauding of the lands that were still recovering from the Dance of the Dragons, but the Lannister continued to stand and stand with a smile on his face at that.  
  
"But I am proud to say that a gift of steel is not the only gift that I bring from the west," Tommen continued. "We Lannisters are known best for our gold and our jewelcraft. How could a Lannister ever come to a wedding without bringing something of both?"  
  
Tommen turned to the Lannister men and nodded...and the group brought forth one wooden chest after another, hefty blocks of wood hewn from old oak and banded with ribs of black iron, protecting the contents within with locks of dragon and wolf.  
  
"The wealth of the west is vast, but let it never be said that we do not share it with our friends," the Lord of Casterly Rock said with a nod towards the dais. "And who are greater friends to us than the glorious Targaryens we serve - long may they reign - or the Starks we fought with against the Red Kraken?"  
  
With that, the Lannister men opened the chests, their lids bringing with them hinged layer after hinged layer...revealing their shimmering contents for display before an awed crowd. Necklaces of gold and silver dotted with bright rubies and dark sapphires, twinkling like the stars of a clear sky and shaped into wolves and dragons both, all there alongside scores of rings, clasps, bracelets and everything else a man or a woman might possibly ask for. Cregan's eyes counted at least half a hundred pieces, a king's ransom in silver and gold and gem, so great that the entire room seemed to be filled with their shine before the Lannister men pressed down on the first layer and drove all of them back into the box with the smooth movement of the hinges. They produced keys from the depths of their pockets to seal the locks, then stepped before the dais and placed them into the hands of the bride and groom directly, leaving their fellows to take the crates to the table that had been reserved for the gifts before leaving the hall, every step measured and careful and planned in advance with all their attention.  
  
"Thank you, Lord Lannister," Daena said warmly and with but a hint of drunkenness that barely managed to slip through what were surely well practiced words...though Cregan thought he saw a hint of uncertainty in her violet eyes, as though she didn't know what to do, either with the gift or the words he couldn't be sure. "It is much appreciated."  
  
"The Westerlands have a great deal of wealth," Tommen answered. "It is only fair that we share some of it with our friends."  
  
In an instant Cregan realized the true intent of Tommen's many gifts...and the Stark smiled. They were no threat to the North, they were to show that the chaos that the west had been thrown into with the death of his father at the Red Fork during the Dance had subsided and that the Lannisters were once more in total control of the Westerlands, for how could they expend such wealth on gifts if their position was insecure?  
  
 _And Lady Johanna made certain that it would be secure,_  he thought to himself as the Lord Lannister sat back into his seat and took a long sip of wine, flashing Lyonel a smile like that of a lion toying with its prey.  _She might've been a woman, aye, but she had an appetite for war that would shame lesser men...and she unmanned many of those who thought they did, unmanned them the way she castrated the Greyjoy boy._  
  
"Lord Lyonel Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach brings forth a gift for Princess Daena, the bride!"  
  
"Indeed, I do, and many of them at that," the Lord Tyrell said eagerly, climbing to his feet. "I have fine gifts for bride and groom both, gifts that I am sure will be appreciated not just because they were expensive, but because of the thought that went into them."  
  
"Oh, this'll be good," Tommen mumbled quietly, looking towards the Tyrell intently.  
  
"My first gift is a gift that every woman enjoys and which every bride should receive on their wedding day," Lyonel began. "As if that were not enough, it is also a thing that is made at its best in the Reach, and so I could not help but bring it."  
  
The Tyrell whistled, and a heartbeat later a procession of Tyrell men entered the hall pushing carts, and instantly the hall filled with the sweet smell of their contents: aromatics by the hundreds, filling each and every cart to the brim. There were jars and flagons of scented oils for bathing, candles of all the color of a rainbow to fill a room with sweetness, bars of soap flecked with spices and herbs and flower petals, with some as large as bricks and others as round as a dinner plate and stamped with the three headed dragon of her royal house, with the last cart filled with bottle after bottle of perfumes from Oldtown and from across the Narrow Sea, glass bottles clinking with the turn of the wheels.  
  
"There are few things that a good lady might enjoy more than a long, relaxing bath," the Tyrell said proudly. "With these, you will have all the scents of the South at but an arm's reach, easily used even after many hours of sewing."  
  
Daena's expression in reply to that was nothing short of  _stunned_ , yet Lyonel took it with a smile, confident that she had been awed by the gifts he brought. "If you liked those, princess, then you will be all the happier to see the second of the gifts that I brought for you today."  
  
The Tyrell men placed the carts before the dais, where the servants were taking them to a sideroom - the Queen's Ballroom the Stark thought for a moment, before remembering that the ballroom was in Maegor's Holdfast - to be collected the morning after, the doorway flanked by the best of the Targaryen household guard...and as soon as the first carts disappeared into the side door, another set of four came into the hall, packed not with glassware nor herbs, but with cloth. There were dresses and gowns and robes, all neatly folded and stacked one atop the other, half in the Targaryen colors of black and red and half in the Stark colors of white and grey, accompanied by matching shoes and gloves and cloaks, but more surprising was that only three of the four carts that entered the room were filled with such things, for the last carried not clothes, but cloth in its raw form, ready to be worked by a seamstress into whatever form she might desire it. There were bolts of fine Lorathi velvet in crimson red and ebon black and Myrish lace as white as spun silver, both were there along with a small roll of the immensely rare Naathi silk that shimmered and glittered like falling raindrops, and all three made the more regular material alongside, thick cloths for protection against the cold winds, look pauperous in comparison.  
  
"A princess should have a wardrobe that she can be proud of, filled with dresses for every occasion," Lyonel said with nothing but pride. "Few make better dresses than the seamstresses of Highgarden, but if there is ever the need for new dresses, you have the finest materials in all the world to ensure that you can have it made. There are even slippers of Lorathi velvet here, so you might dance for hours."  
  
Daena glanced not towards her husband, then, but to her uncle.  
  
He subtly shook his head. A million words were said without being spoken.  
  
"...oh, this is all wonderful," Daena said, forcing her voice to be happy and accepting in such a way that caused Lyonel to realize, at last, that she might not be the kind of woman to appreciate such items as much as others might. "Thank you."  
  
The Lannister raised his cup for a drink and laughed into the wine as he drank it, his eyes filled with utter pride even as the Tyrell kicked the back of his heel into Tommen's seat and made Cregan sigh at the exchange.  _Boys playing at lordship...it is as though they don't realize that thousands upon thousands of men will die if their houses go to war because of their games._  
  
"Though I am not the kind of lord who would bring only gifts for the bride and not the groom," Lyonel quickly smiled for all to see, trying to salvage things as best he can. "But mine is a gift that is perhaps too large to bring through the door, though something that I am sure our good Jonnel will eagerly receive."  
  
Then the Tyrell turned towards the door that led to the Red Keep's courtyard where so many more were still feasting and where many more musicians were playing from the walls.  
  
"Bring him in if you can!"  
  
A few moments later a handsomely dressed groom in the Tyrell colors stepped into the hall on his lord's command, entering no further than the first few feet...and in his hands were the reins of one of the largest horses that Cregan had ever seen in his life, a thoroughbred giant of a destrier, a true warhorse so tall that it would be able to look a man in the eye as it rode him down and trampled him into the earth. His grey hide matched the Stark colors that covered his armored bardings, yet his hair had gone a white so pale with his age as to look nearly as bright as the moon, a stark contrast to the blue eyes that looked around the room with what could have only been curiosity from behind its steel, wolf-themed chanfron.  
  
"A gift that any man could be proud to have been given," Viserys said, throwing the Tyrell some desperately wanted respite.  
  
"Thank you," Jonnel said, his words honest unlike those of his new wife. "We know of how fine the hroses of the Reach are eve nin Winterfell."  
  
The Tyrell perked up at that answer, and bowed before the dais before returning to his seat...where a smiling Lannister lion was waiting for him, the Tyrell running a hand through his chestnut curls and letting out a sigh of relief before reaching for his drink. "Not a word, Lannister."  
  
"I don't think I need to say any," Tommen smirked. "Daena's face said enough."  
  
"Lord Donnel Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Lord of the Vale, brings a gift for both the bride and the groom."  
  
"Though the Vale of Arryn may not be as wealthy as the Westerlands nor as vast as the Reach, it is the oldest realm in all of Westeros and the place where the Andals first brought the Faith of the Seven to these lands," the Arryn said warmly. "It was there in the Vale that the first books written in Westeros were made by the septons of old Andalos, recording the history of the land in parchment rather than in runestones so that their knowledge might be spread far and wide."  
  
Entering the hall at the sound of their lord's view, four Arryn men in bright blues and whites stepped into the hall, holding three books each, books that they brought to the dais and placed before the Targaryen princess who leaned forward with curious eyes. They were hefty things one and all, but things of impeccable craftsmanship, bound with a single great piece of leather that was embroidered with thread of gold or silver and whose names were not sewn into the leather, but branded onto small wooden squares affixed to their fronts.  
  
"It is knowledge that I bring to you," the Arryn continued, gesturing towards them with an open hand. "Many of these texts are rarely found in Westeros outside the Citadel, so much so that my maester informed me that some of them may have never before been found in the Seven Kingdoms."  
  
"How did you get them?" Elaena asked, attentions peaked in sobriety, her elder sister looking to the Arryn in agreement.  
  
"Many of them come from the Free Cities and written in High Valyrian," Donnel explained. "That should be no issue for a Targaryen woman, however...and the texts themselves are well worth the reading, even the ones native to Westeros. There is a book called  _Dragonkin_ , a history of your line, by the good Maester Thomax that I am sure our good princess will enjoy. Another,  _Perzys Ānogār_ , should make for fine reading as well."  
  
Daena perked up at the sound of the High Valyrian. "Doesn't that mean -"  
  
"Fire and Blood," Viserys said instantly before looking to Daena. "An exceptionally rare book, little niece, and one I might wish to borrow from you."  
  
"What is it about?" the princess's new groom asked.  
  
"Dragons," Elaena answered, free to speak thanks to Viserys having kept her away from the wine for a time. "It's a book about  _dragons_."  
  
"It was written by a dragonlord of Old Valyria hundreds of years before the Doom," Viserys explained with more detail. "I have never been so fortunate to find a copy of my own and can only say what I have been told by those who have, but it was said that every one of the Lord Freeholders had a copy of their own in Valyria, so important and useful a text it was about the health and use of dragons."  
  
"Even we had one at Dragonstone, for there are mentions of it in our oldest letters, but it was lost during the Conquest when Aegon brought it with him only for Black Harren's sons to set his tent ablaze at the Wailing Willows," Viserys seemed to sigh in disappointment. "Though Aegon had escaped the flames unharmed, the book - our book, added to by Targaryen dragonlords of old - was lost."  
  
"There is also a book about the magics of the Valyrians there as well," Donnel said proudly. "Such texts are hard to find out of Asshai and Volantis, but fortunately a Pentoshi trader was carrying it with an eye to selling it at Braavos when they docked at Gulltown. Though Valyria's magics might've died with her, it goes into detail about the results of their powers. The glass candles, the dragonroads, the Black Walls, all are mentioned somewhere..."  
  
"...and unfortunately, so is the work of their flesh smithery of their blood sorcerers," the Arryn said more quietly. "Best not to look upon such images with a weak stomach."  
  
"...flesh smiths?" Daena asked. "Do I even  _want_ to know what that means?"  
  
Donnel, Viserys and Elaena all shook their heads.  
  
"Still, I'll have to read through them sometime," Daena said at last, far more grateful of the texts than she was of Lyonel's items. "Thank you very much, Lord Arryn."  
  
"There are more," the Arryn said. "But my good maester suggested that they would not travel well; collections too large to move easily and tomes too old to risk the roads for long. I have seen to send such works to White Harbor, so that they might make their way to Winterfell."  
  
"My next gift is something I was more hesitant about giving, but something that I hope will be appreciated all the same," the Lord of the Eyrie continued. "But more than anything else, it is something that a new wife and a new groom will soon come to need, if the gods are kind."  
  
Again a pair of Arryn men came in at the sound of their lord's voice, but as Tommen's men had, they came in pushing something concealed beneath cloth atop a wheeled platform, bringing it before the dais before bowing before the Targaryens and departing and all that in perfect order.  
  
"I hope this pleases you," the Arryn said, taking the cloth, and with a flick of his wrist he pulled it away to reveal -  
  
Even Cregan was stunned by the sight, caught by surprise by a gift he had not even begun to expect.  
  
It was a bulky thing, built like a fortress and just as difficult to escape even if it only did come up to waist height, but past its spindles of white wood and their latches of castle forged steel and between the headboard and the end was a place of utmost comfort, a place with its own featherbed that was draped in blankets and padded with pillows that were part Targaryen and part Stark, their heraldries placed sided by side in a position of mutual respect. At either end were little joints that would allow the middle to ever so gently wave from side to side, and as if that was not enough of a demonstration of the care and thought that had gone into its construction, there was even a small shelf on the opposite side of the endboard, big enough for any toy.  
  
It was a cradle.  
  
And it was carved from weirwood.  
  
But more than pillows, more than blankets, more than the pale weirwood, what caught Cregan's eyes most was the three dragon heads at one end and the direwolf's head on the other, with the Seven Sided Star of the New Gods beneath the former and the carved face of a heart tree beneath the latter, smiling and loving and gentle.  
  
"You placed the face of a weirwood tree over the head of the cradle," Jonnel said, amazed. "I hadn't thought an Arryn would know to do that."  
  
"I will admit that I hadn't, but to make sure I did no offense I made sure to summon one of our Royce cousins to the Gates of the Moon for advice," the Lord Arryn spoke, gently touching the side to show how it might rock itself to and fro. "He told me that it is said that the Old Gods can see anything through the carved face of weirwood and would protect those who came before them."  
  
"He told you true," Jonnel smiled, a genuine and honest smile. Even Cregan did. It was a magnificent gift.  
  
"Seven hells," Daena laughed. "Thank you. This...this will come in handy, I think. I'm honored, Lord Arryn."  
  
"The honor is mine, Lady  _Stark_ ," Donnel said, Daena laughing at her new title and amusement going around the room with it, the Arryn the first man to call her by her new name. "May there never come a day when you do not have need of it."  
  
"Indeed," Cregan agreed...before asking a question he felt the need to ask. "Though if I might ask, where did you get the weirwood?"  
  
"The mountain clans have been vicious this year, with many good Valemen losing their lives in battle against them," Donnel lamented. "Even my own retinue was attacked on its way to the Bloody Gate, though we repelled them with no losses, Warrior bless. But for every strike they make against us, we make two and the knights of the Vale do not merely harass as the clansmen do, they go into the depths of their valleys to rout them at the source."  
  
"They build their villages around weirwood trees, you see, so uprooting them removes a place for them to rally their strength against us and lets us claim more of the woods," the Andal explained. "Merely driving their folk deeper into the forests helps not, for it is well known that they will come back in a few days time to reclaim their tree. Take the tree away, however, and they won't return."  
  
"Even still, I must admit to being...loathe to cut down a weirwood tree," the Lord of the Vale admitted. "Gods are gods, whether they be Old or New or from across the Narrow Sea. Best not to anger them if one can help it, I feel."  
  
 _...and there is the wisdom that makes boys into men,_  Cregan smiled. "Very reasonable of you, Lord Arryn. I made sure that the armies of the North left the septs they found during the war unharmed for much the same reason. A godly man is a godly man, it matters not which faith he keeps."  
  
"Exactly so," Donnel agreed before looking to the dais once more. "It was for that reason I had the symbols of gods Old and New carved in it. May both of them give you their blessings."  
  
And with those words, Donnel returned to his seat.  
  
"Books? Truly?" Lyonel asked.  
  
"But of course," Donnel said, smiling knowingly. "There are books for every kind of man or woman in the world, and a Targaryen who doesn't like dragons is not a Targaryen."  
  
"But wasn't there not the chance she wouldn't have liked them?"  
  
"Mayhaps, but you managed to disappoint a maiden with a cartful of dresses," Donnel countered. "I wouldn't be one to talk if I were you."  
  
Cregan's laugh was rumbling. "You get better with these things with age. Better to get someone a gift you  _know_ they won't hate than to get something they  _might_ love, for who wants to be the man to upset a princess on her wedding day?"  
  
Lyonel was unusually quiet in answer to that. Cregan only hoped it was because he was understanding the lesson of his elders and not simply brooding or trying to come up with some witty remark as was his want.  
  
"My lords, there has been an unexpected, but most welcome addition to the list," the herald called out for all to hear. "The good Moredo Rogare of Lys, formerly marriage kin to the Targaryens of King's Landing through the union of his sister Larra Rogare - may her soul rest in peace - to Prince Viserys."  
  
"It has been too long, good brother!" the Lysene said eagerly as he walked into the halls, draped in the whites and lilacs of his city, the very colors that matched the silver hair and violet eyes of so many of its people and Moredo's own, his hand resting on the pommel of the Rogare's own Valyrian steel sword, Truth. "We haven't seen one another for almost ten years!"  
  
The smile that Viserys gave the Rogare was enough to see what he thought of his old goodbrother, the false smile given by one cousin to another for kinship's sake alone. A few decades ago the Rogares had a wealth that would have rivaled that of Casterly Rock thanks to the bank that bore their name, so vast in power that they could hire armies of tens of thousands of sellswords with which to conduct their affairs, and their veins were filled with the same pure Valyrian blood as the Targaryens own, Lys a city where a man without the Valyrian look was a dozen times rarer than those with it. They had been a fine match for a Targaryen prince, even if there were questions as to how they had came to see Viserys wedded to their Larra, questions that Viserys himself was reluctant to answer...but that was near enough thirty years ago. Since then the Rogare Bank had been crippled by the death of the alliance the Lysene shared with their Myrish and Tyroshi cousins, ripped apart by the backbreaking "victory" that was the Battle of the Gullet, and lost most of the wealth that had been invested into the Divided Lands that were once more divided and plagued by war, and the other families had come to resent Rogare power and had hanged the so called First Magister For Life from his own walls. They had bled power and grown anemic and weak in the years since, with Lysaro Rogare, heir to the family's power, whipped to death on the steps of the Tower of Trade, leaving Moredo to inherit the ashes of what was once the most powerful dynasty in the Free Cities. Their alliance with the Targaryens was secured in the blood of Viserys' children, in the dashing Prince Aegon, in the heroic Aemon the Dragonknight and the snow white Naerys who hid herself away in prayer as Baelor did, even though she was her brother's bride, and as kin they had the right to be heard.  
  
And there was no doubt in Cregan's heart that Moredo had come to collect on that right. The Stark grit his teeth at the sight of the immaculately dressed Rogare, and thought only to himself that stood before him was a beggar in silk.  
  
"That is so," Viserys answered with nothing but diplomatic courtesy. "What brings you to King's Landing on this occasion?"  
  
"Can a good brother not come to the feasts and weddings of those who were his kin by marriage?" the Rogare laughed, trying to win over the Targaryen prince with warmth and friendly words. "Larra's passing was a tragedy, but surely love outlasts death, as our bonds do?"  
  
"It does," Viserys said simply. "I would have seen fit to have an invitation sent to you, though I was told the Rogare manse was reduced to ashes."  
  
"Alas, it is so," Moredo said with a sigh before continuing on. "The years have not been kind to us Rogares, nor the fortunes, but given time and aid from our allies I am sure we can be back on our feet before long."  
  
 _And there it is,_  Cregan sighed.  
  
"Perhaps, but that is a discussion for another time and certainly  **not** for the wedding feast of a Targaryen princess," Viserys stated flatly, his voice hardening. "We may have been kin by marriage, but good brothers come before those who are part of my family by birth."  
  
"Of course, of course," Moredo agreed, tipping his attentions towards Daena and bowing deeply and with the utmost respect. "It is my greatest pleasure to be able to be here before you, good princess. I have brought many gifts from across the Narrow Sea for you and your groom, as any good kinsman would."  
  
"You have brought gifts this day?" Viserys asked, softening at the understanding that his so called good brother had not simply come to his niece's wedding to beg. "Very well. Please, bring forth your gifts."  
  
"Gladly," Moredo smiled before turning towards the door, where half a dozen Lysene men - as white haired and violet eyed as the Rogare - stood waiting, simple and small wooden chests in hand. "Please, bring forth my offerings to our good and honorable Targaryen hosts!"  
  
His head snapped back towards the dais with an eager smile. "Though my offerings are surely not as large as those of your great lords, I hope that they will be just as large in the happiness that they bring you."  
  
"That remains to be seen, just like the gifts," the wine sodden Elaena japed, Viserys glancing at her for but a moment before she fell silent again.  
  
"My first gift is one for the good groom," the Rogare said, taking the chest from the first of his men and raising the lid to reveal a well crafted crossbow, a weapon whose secrets were kept beyond the Narrow Sea, yet one that was small enough to be held with one hand and loaded with the other, its deadly mouth carvedinto the shape of a direwolf's jaws. "A hunting crossbow, from the artisans of Myr, so light that you can load it easily from horseback and never need worry about losing one's prey, yet strong enough to puncture boiled leather."  
  
"A fine weapon," Jonnel said, grateful. "We haven't any of its kind in Winterfell."  
  
"My second gift is one for the beautiful bride," he continued with a bow of his head as a servant took from him the first and freed his hands for the second, raising its lid to reveal a small wooden box of finely varnished oak...and whose own top he removed to reveal a tiny couple crafted from ivory, surrounded by little buildings of ebonwood in the Valyrian stylings, all apart from a small little metal wheel.  
  
Turning the wheel between thumb and forefinger, around and around and around, the Rogare let go...and the box began to chime with the sounds of music as the figures danced around one another and the buildings began to burn, false flames rising from their rooftops. Immediately Daena leaned forward with a smile on her cheeks, happy to have something of a kind she had never seen before, but then the music struck her true, and she recognized the scene before her and her smile turned sad.  
  
"What is it?" the princess asked with a sad look in her eye at the sound. "Is that the Doom of Valyria?"  
  
"A Myrish singing box," the Rogare bowed in answer as the chiming song and its high notes turned sad and somber. "And indeed it is, good princess. It is the Dance of the Dragons, the ballad that sings of two lovers, trapped within Valyria as the city burns. Such a box as this is worth many times its weight in gold, for it might take even the first artisan a year on end to make even one and no two ever sound the same."  
  
"Thank you," she said as the servants took the box away, its somber music sounding all the more so as it disappeared into the halls. "I'll be sure to take very good care of it."  
  
"My third gift is one best enjoyed by the both of you, I am certain, and there are few gifts better suited than a gift with which to travel," the Rogare continued eagerly as the next man stepped forward with their case and placed it on the dais before Daena and Jonnel, flipping the lid open to reveal a fine bottle of wine. "The greatest of the Dornish reds, to be drank as you return northwards. It was bottled in one hundred and sixty one years after Aegon's Conquest, and I am told that was a very fine year indeed in Dorne for making wine -"  
  
Never in all his years had Cregan seen a hall go silent even half as fast as it did then, for in an instant all the joy went out of the Targaryen princess, but it was not just her. It was gone from all the Targaryens, from all the men and women in the room highborn or low...and even Cregan's hands clenched into fists as the memory of the son he lost was forced into his mind again, as stinging as it had been years before.  
  
"One hundred and sixty one was the year my brother died in Dorne," Daena said quietly, her voice echoing through the room. "They murdered him under a banner of truce that  _ **they**_ offered."  
  
The Rogare went as pale as fresh fallen snow.  
  
"My princess, forgive me -"  
  
"Another word from you, Rogare, and marriage bonds or not this shall be the last wedding you ever attend," Viserys said, his voice filling the silent hall. "You have the right of a guest to stay within these halls safely for the night, but I will make my feelings for you clear: you are no longer welcome in this hall."  
  
"...of course, your grace," the Rogare sighed before looking to the Targaryen princess. "I only hope you find it within yourself to forgive me, my lady. I meant no offense."  
  
" _Go,_ " Viserys ordered, his voice no louder and yet a thousand times harder...  
  
...and the Rogare did as he was ordered and left the hall, footsteps echoing into the distance as his men went with him.  
  
"It has a tag on it saying that it was made especially for the  _ **Six**_ Kingdoms," Daena said, taking the wine bottle from the case, her words solemn and quiet in a way that Cregan had never seen before.  
  
"Niece, do not worry yourself with that," Viserys said, trying to reassure the princess, trying to cheer her sullen heart. "Do not allow the Martells to ruin your day."  
  
"My father is right, cousin," Prince Aegon agreed. "Let me deal with them and give them a reply they won't ever forget."  
  
"Oh, I don't plan to," she answered, somber mourning replaced with simmering anger. "I want to get rid of this, so I will pour it in the brazier and be done with it."  
  
Jonnel tried t6o say something, tried to stop her, but the princess rose from her seat with swaying steps...and the new husband sighed so slightly that Cregan was barely able to notice before he took the bottle from her hands.  
  
"Let me, wife," Jonnel said, Daena settling back into her seat, walking over to the softly burning flames of the brazier in the corner before uncapping its top and pouring it onto the coals, the heat wavering and steam rising as it boiled away, everyone watching the red pouring into the flames, everyone in complete and utter silence...  
  
...till the pouring crimson became a drop, the heir to Winterfell tipping the bottle upright and shaking to free the last few drops before throwing it into the waiting hands of a young servant man dressed as best as he could for the wedding, the youth hurriedly leaving the hall to get rid of the bottle however he might please.  
  
Then Jonnel stepped back into his seat, and his wife smiled.  
  
"If the gods are as kind as my dear brother Baelor says they are..." Daena said, putting the Martell insult behind her. "...then that won't be the only thing from Dorne being burnt for long."  
  
And instantly, the room exploded with laughter and cheer, and even Cregan's steady demeanour cracked with a smile. There was no love lost for Dornei n the lands north of the Red Mountains, not even a drop of mercy left in them, for the Dornish had committed the greatest sin possible in the eyes of gods and men - they had butchered a man beneath a banner of truce. Such a thing was worse than oath breaking and even worse than killing a man under guest right, for it was the banner of the gods that flew as a banner of truce, banners that were understood to mean peace from the storm battered shores of the Iron Islands to the howling peaks of the Vale of Arryn to the frozen woods of the Lands Beyond the Wall. It was a crime against gods and men alike.  
  
But more than that, they had killed his son. His firstborn son and heir. The only son he had till Jonnel was born. The only son he had from his first marriage. The one who would've been the Lord of Winterfell when Cregan's days were over and done. His Rickon. His son.  
  
His  _ **son**_.  
  
If the opportunity came for him to do so, if war came and he was fortunate enough to be still be alive when it did, then by the gods Old and New he would march beneath the banners himself and show the Dornish why the banner of the direwolf was so afeared by wildlings and ironmen alike. He would make sure that they felt the same anguish that he felt when he lost his Rickon, and he would make sure that Martells could be found only in hell.  
  
It was the herald that broke him from his thoughts, the man bravely speaking up to bring the wedding on track once more...it was a gesture that was appreciated by more than a few, Cregan knew. One day he would have his vengeance. Not today, but one day soon. He had patience.  
  
He would wait. He would wait until the Martells were at their most relaxed, a day when they thought they were safe and a day when they were happy, a day when they thought that their atrocity against men and gods alike had been forgotten. He would wait till they seemed to be on the brink of complete success in all their dreams...and only then would he strike,  _strike,_ and show them why men feared the coming of winter.  
  
But for now, he would wait.  
  
"And of course, Prince Aegon Targaryen, beloved of the smallfolk, brings forth a most special gift for his much loved cousin!"  
  
"Indeed I do," the young and strapping prince said with pride as he rose from his seat, drawing the attentions of unwed young women across the room with his sharp features and robust build and striking hair of silver, taking the attentions of all from the Rogare's mistake. "I might not be able to match my father's gift, but I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed finding it."  
  
He whistled...and the door opened to reveal a company of four servants in black and red stepping forward, each holding an arm of a large crate, a cage covered in veil of black and red that rippled with their every step and the motion of a creature within, a sound of soft breaths filling a curious hall as they carried the container across the hall and placed it before the dais.  
  
"You always wanted a dragon, sweet cousin," Aegon smiled, picking up the corner of the sheet. "Now you can have three of them."  
  
Before anyone could react, Aegon yanked the sheet from the cage...and the entirety of the hall gasped to see three dragons within, one black as Balerion had been, one red as Vhagar once was, one silver as Meraxes had been before dying over Dorne, all three a mimicry of the dragons that had once soared in the skies of Westeros in the days of Aegon the Conqueror...and each with a wingspan that matched his arms from finger to finger. The creatures looked around with confusion, trying to find out where they were, but confusion turned to hunger as they smelled the food of the feast, pressing against the bars to try and reach the nearest plates, growling before leaning back and bonking their heads against the bar, trying to get through before Aegon reached for a plate of lamb shanks and threw them inside, the dragons ripping them apart in seconds between their fangs.  
  
"Gods!" Daena gasped, rising from her seat and leaning forward to see with her own eyes, awestruck. "Are those really dragons?"  
  
"They look it," Viserys said, amazed. "How? How did you find them, Aegon?"  
  
"I wish I could say that they were truly dragons, father," Aegon smiled, leaning against a table as he raised his cup once more. "They're not dragons, but they are dragon _kin_."  
  
"Wyverns," Viserys said with a sigh of realization, relaxing. "An incredible gift. Wyverns aren't found anywhere in Westeros but the jungles of Sothoryos."  
  
"Exactly so," the prince smiled as he looked towards Daena. "They won't grow much larger than that, I'm afraid, and they don't breathe fire, but they can fly and hunt and look just as a dragon might...and with the loss of our mounts, they're the closest ones in the world to the dragons of Old Valyria."  
  
"And you made them match the color of Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes," Daena smiled, leaning forward before taking a bone leftover on her table and throwing it through the cages, the Vhagar look alike jumping up to catch it between her teeth. "Did you name them that as well?"  
  
"I would have, but I though to leave the naming to you, coz," was the prince's answer. "They're yours, not mine."  
  
"Thank you, cousin," she smiled, truly grateful. "I always wanted to ride a dragon."  
  
"And you will be, for after the wedding and the feasting and the gifting there is one last thing," Aegon said with a knowing smile.  
  
"He is right, husband," Daena said with a warm smile, turning towards a Jonnel who looked back at her in growing realization. "There's still one thing left to do..."  
  
"...but that's enough properness for one day," Daena said as her smile turned sultry as she rose from her seat, leaning on the table to support her not entirely sober body. "A hearth needs a fire the way a wedding needs a bedding, and this bride is ready to be bedded!"  
  
And before Cregan could even breathe again the music was on them, a fast and rowdy tune filled with the laughter of young men and women and lords and ladies rushing up to the dais, young Elaena leading the women in hoisting a surprised and shouting Jonnel from his chair as Prince Aegon did the same to the laughing bride, lifting her into the arms of the crowd of men, the groups stripping the pair down little by little as they carried them out the door towards the bedchamber, japing and singing with their every step and filling the hallways with such words as to make chase old septa's go deaf at the sound...and for a moment, even Cregan was tempted to join them in the spirit of the wedding, smiling as they tossed one of the Targaryen princess's shoes into the room as they turned the corner to start making their way up the steps, looking around the hall to see that all but a handful had left, even most of the high lords and their wives, with only Viserys left of the Targaryens who had came to the feast, the chaste Rhaena and Naerys and Baelor all having chosen to be elsewhere. Even the noble Ser Aemon had gone to join the fun and gone with the crowds out the hall, able to make sure that nothing got too out of hand on the way to the bedchamber.  
  
"...my lord...?" the herald said, stepping towards the dais with letter in hand. "We haven't even truly began to go through the list."  
  
"Indeed? It seems our Daena was mayhaps a little too hasty," Viserys said with a japing look in his eye as he took the paper and looked upon it with his own eyes. "There are near enough three hundred more names on this list."  
  
"I hope some of them are gifting wagons," Cregan said, speaking up so that the Hand of the King might hear him. "It'll be hard enough getting even the gifts we have had so far to Winterfell."  
  
"If the need comes for it, I will see that the ships of the royal navy take some of the burden," Viserys offered. "Under King Baelor it is not like they will have much else to do."  
  
"It would be greatly appreciated," Cregan nodded, thankful.  
  
"It is a small matter to help our new kin," Viserys answered warmly. "We are good brothers, now, Lord Stark. Any problem that you face is one that we face too, and any enemy of Winterfell is an enemy of King's Landing."  
  
"The same goes for you, good Hand," Cregan nodded, returning the promise. "You need only ask and all the might of the North will be yours to command."  
  
"Was it not already by your vow of fealty?" Viserys japed and Cregan laughed, free to talk and act as they might do when there were so few around, without the entire kingdom watching their every action. "I have a good feeling about this alliance, Stark, and all the more about seeing a princess of ours wedded and away from the Red Keep."  
  
"You do not agree with the King keeping them unwed?"  
  
"I do not agree with the king on many things, though I do as he commands," the man who was a prince and Hand of the King both answered. "No, I see it as a waste. Not just of the possibilities that might be made with their marriage, but of their lives as well. There is nothing wrong with a woman choosing to become a septa of her own accord, for such is their right, but to force a woman to act in such a way regardless of her will is naught but cruelty. Even a man who has gone to the Wall has made the choice to do so, either by choosing to go there on their own accord or by choosing to conduct a crime that saw them banished there to attone. Aegon's daughters made no such choice."  
  
"But is it not his right as head of your house to make such choices for them?" Cregan asked. "What difference does it make between him choosing to have her wed a man or choosing to keep her unwed, when it is still his choice to make?"  
  
"Is it not your right to strip your Jonnel of his inheritance if he so much as spills his drink?" Viserys countered swiftly. "Of course it is. Does the fact that you have the right make it just? Of course not. Only a madman would have thought the Right of the First Night to be justice, yet lords had the right to it till Rhaenys Targaryen saw it outlawed. When it is tradition for women to be married, when they have been raised from birth to dream of a husband and a family of their own, when they want to be married themselves, to bar one from wedding at all is akin to raising a dog from the moment they come into the world to hunt and never taking him out the kennels."  
  
"Besides, I do have the right to take your head simply because I wish it as Hand of the King, Viserys relaxed into his seat and raised his cup with a smile. "Though I think you would be inclined to say that it wasn't justice."  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure," Cregan answered. "I would be dead."  
  
The Targaryen laughed at Cregan's jape, a rare thing for Cregan to do, and sipped his wine as the first lords and ladies began to return to the hall, laughing and japing amongst themselves, the Lords of the Westerlands and the Reach the first to enter and the first to come back to their seats.  
  
"How goes the bedding?" he asked. "She hasn't broken his manhood with her eagerness, has she?"  
  
"Oh, theirs is a marriage that is definitely being consummated," the Lannister laughed as he fell back into his seat with a playing smile. "That Targaryen is a dragon, or at least she  _roars_ like one."  
  
"She's tied him down to the bed to make sure he couldn't get away like Baelor did," the Lord of Highgarden said, raising his cup eagerly. "That son of yours is in for the night of his life."  
  
"There's no question about that," Cregan said, reaching for the wine to pour another cup. "Who do you think gave the smith's his measurements?"  
  
And with that there was a roar of laughter from up and down the table.  
  
"Gods, if only my wife were so eager," Lyonel wished. "Three months of marriage and you would think she was an old septa, but there you have a newlywed who leaps on her groom like a starved dog on a honeyed ham."  
  
"Years of being trapped in a tower with naught but sisters for company will do that to a woman," Tommen said. "He'll never need to touch a whore again."  
  
"Assuming she doesn't have an appetite for them as well," Lyonel reasoned. "Aegon had two wives, remember? Imagine what a bedding would be like with  _two_ Targaryen beauties!"  
  
"Gods, it was no wonder the Valyrians learnt that flesh smithing," Tommen laughed. "They must have done it to steal the manhoods from their slaves so they could plough more than one woman at a time!"  
  
Not even the news that the bedding was underway and that Jonnel was carrying out his husbandly duty for Winterfell's sake could have made Cregan happier than when the entertainers came forth to begin their acts...leaving the young lords finally distracted enough to close their mouths and leave him in the sweet bliss of peace.  
  
At least, till the hardly at all dressed women of the Leaping Ladies of Lys came forth. Then he simply wanted the roof to collapse and put him out of the misery of listening to their japes and unending arguments and lustful banter.  
  
It would've been mercy.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm proud to say this is some of my best writing ever! :) This is going to be a series about resolving the Pact of Ice and Fire via a marriage between Jonnel Stark and Daena Targaryen, who is now free to marry after having her unconsummated marriage with Baelor the Blessed annulled by the High Septon.
> 
> Daena is her fiery self...but her isolation in her chambers has definitely gotten to her. It's made her a little desperate, and she's very eager to get away from the capital and king Baelor, but she really wants to look after Elaena too, and make sure she doesn't have to go through the tortuous isolationism that was starting to make her crack. She's lustful from being trapped inside her chambers for so long, not to mention having developed a fondness for wine and just about anything that can pass the time...but with the chance to get some freedom again, such flaws might go away, given time. 
> 
> Jonnel, on the other hand, is a blend of all three of Rickard's male children. He has Brandon's passions and fire, Eddard's sense of duty and moral compass and Benjen's playfulness and loyalty, shaped and sculpted by his father Cregan to learn the intricacies of a life at court and combined with a healthy dash of youthful exuberance and inexperience...with some guilt for having caused the death of his previous wife, since her miscarriages directly led to her blood poisoning and death.
> 
> Oh, and he's also terrible at poetry...and he gets even worse at it when he's anxiously meeting his betrothed :p
> 
> Anyhow, the next part will be about their wedding, bedding and departure to Winterfell. Will King Baelor die from a fast? Will Elaena escape the evil clutches of the Faith? Will Daena be "ploughed into the ground"?
> 
> Find out next time on a Northern Dragoness!


End file.
